


No, YOU Suck It

by copyallcatsandacrobats (ordinaryalchemy)



Category: Psych, Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Bobby Deals With Idjits, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Dean doesn't like monsters, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's Journal, M/M, Protective Sam, Shawn and Juliet refuse to give in, Suspense, Vampires, police training didn't cover this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryalchemy/pseuds/copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While trying to protect Shawn from a vampire attack, Lassiter is forced to ingest vampire blood; fortunately, Sam may have read about a possible cure. Also, Dean is outed by his dead father (which wasn't news), and Juliet is a BAMF (also not news). **UPDATED with sequel segue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this takes place in the summer after season one for Psych, and just after 3x01 "The Magnificent Seven" for Supernatural.

****

**JUNE 2007**

Sam leaned out of the window of the car so that he could get his brother's attention without shouting, his eyes still on his phone. “Dude, case,” he said.

Dean had been leaning against the side of the Impala, checking out the girl walking into the convenience store and thinking of nothing much except what kind of underwear she might, or might not, have on. He left the pump on automatic and leaned against the hood instead. “Yeah, what? More demon dicks? 'Cause I gotta say, Sammy, I've kind of already got my quota this week.”

“No, not demons—check this out,” he said, holding up the phone but not handing it over. “There have been five missing persons in the last _month_ in Santa Barbara, three found dead—one mauled beyond all recognition and two with their heads ripped off—and two still missing. What's that sound like to you?”

Dean had on his disgusted face, and made a disgusted sound to go along with it. “Vamps, ugh. Well, I really am sick of this scene—we hauling ass for sunny California? Bet you can't wait to tread your old stomping ground again.”

Sam gave him a look. “Santa Barbara is like, five hours from Stanford. And if we're going to work a case, let's just work the case, okay?”

“Hey, fine by me.” Dean returned the pump when it clicked off, and he grinned as he went inside to pay and passed that hot girl as she was coming out, wondering how close Santa Barbara was to the beach.

.

“Eww,” Shawn said. Gus didn't reply—he was too busying trying not to gag. “Stay with me, buddy,” Shawn said absently, and flipped the crime scene photo over to reveal the next one. The first few had been of the general scenes, and a few of the evidence markers showing blood spatters, tire tracks, foot prints, and a cigarette butt, but the one after that had been someone who apparently missed the last 'head's up!' This next one was of a gruesomely mangled body, one arm torn off at the elbow and a gash in the torso big enough to cradle a baby dinosaur in, and Gus was off, nearly knocking Lassiter over as he marched into the room they'd been using for evidence gathering. Shawn was almost glad when the folder was ripped out of his hands—or he would have been, if not for his shredded fingers.

“Yiiikes, paper cuts!” he admonished, flapping his hands and hopping from foot to foot, because that was just what you did when something went ouchy. “Did your mother ever teach you to say please?”

“Did your mother ever have any kids that lived?” Lassiter shot back.

Shawn stopped bouncing to examine his palms, which weren't bleeding, but did sting a little. “I'm alive,” he said. “I feel _so_ alive. Looking at crime scene photos just makes me love my own life that much more. I feel like singing.” He dropped into a low, melodious tone. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Lassie's case is not that far. Who will murder someone next? Could it be that one girl's ex? Now I'm gonna solve that crime, because you're running out of time.”

Lassiter had stopped in the middle of piling up the rest of the photos to glare at him, and now he slowly pointed toward the exit. “Out.”

“You didn't like my serenade? I do have another one, exquisitely titled, 'Lassie's Classy Chassis'.” Shawn opened his mouth to launch into a parody of 'Jessie's Girl', but he changed track and stepped out into the hall just as Lassiter made a grab for his shoulder to throw him out. “I bet you don't like Weird Al, either!” Shawn called, and Lassiter slammed the door in his face. “A rude, crude, and unsubdued dude,” he told an officer heading for the holding cell, and then he turned around to find himself face-to-face with Gus, whose face looked slightly ashy. Shawn considered him, and Gus began to look suspicious.

“Shawn...”

“Smegma sandwiches,” Shawn said mildly, and Gus spun around so fast he almost did a 360 to propel himself back toward the restroom. Shawn snickered and sauntered back toward the exit to wait for his friend, who still had the car keys, so that they could get tacos on the way back to the Psych office and begin trying to figure out who—or what—had wreaked such staggering havoc on the incredibly unfortunate women in the crime scene photos.

.

Dean gave a cool look to the long drink of water who looked like he ate a bushel of lemons every morning and liked it. “It happens sometimes,” he said. “The FBI has a lot going on, sometimes communication gets interrupted for one reason or another. We're glad to work with you on this, but we are going to need that case file.”

“I just don't see why I was failed to be informed that you were coming,” Detective Lassiter said again, his almost non-existent lips practically disappearing. “Chief Vick put in this request, you said?”

“He sure did, Detective,” Sam said mildly. “We're only here to help put a stop to these murders, not to step on your toes.”

Lassiter's partner, a young blonde with a Barbie doll face, suddenly gave Sam a scrutinizing look that he noticed, and he glanced at Dean for help, realizing he'd said something wrong and she was considering whether or not to procedure them to death. “Chief Vick is a woman,” she said.

“My apologies,” Sam said, meaning it. “We only got a first initial.”

Detective O'Hara smiled. “Jay?”

“No ma'am, we have a K. Vick on our paperwork,” Dean said, ostentatiously opening a folder and frowning at it. “Though that may be a typo. If you'd like to call our superior—” The card with Bobby's phone number appeared between his fingers.

“O'Hara, get someone to run them off some copies,” Lassiter said, still giving Sam and Dean a measuring look. He suddenly reached out and plucked the card from Dean's hand. “While I double-check on this. Procedure.”

“Of course.” O'Hara turned on her heel, the case file in her hands, while Lassiter strode to a desk and picked up a phone.

“Should we blow, ya think?” Sam murmured. It wasn't just his slip—apparently these two actually had good cop instincts for liars, or people posing as those they weren't.

“Not yet.” Dean was scanning the room. “The Head Detective thinks he's a little more important than he is—he won't try calling the chief on vacation unless Bobby pings him weird. Let's see if we can just get the file, then blow.”

They watched Lassiter glance repeatedly at the card in his hand, frowning, and then speak into the phone. He looked at Sam and Dean suspiciously as he listened, and they gave him their best bland looks back. He seemed supremely annoyed at something, and then he hung up, coming back over to them just as Detective O'Hara took a file folder from a clerk and joined them. “They check out,” he said almost reluctantly, and when Sam started to reach for the card, Lassiter put it into his pocket. “I'll just hang onto this for the duration of your assistance, unless that's a problem.”

“Not at all,” Sam said.

“Lots of extras,” Dean added. He almost winked at O'Hara, but he had a feeling that she would give him a sweet smile in return, and then destroy him. That sounded hot, actually.

“Here we go, gentlemen,” she said. “This is everything we have officially. If you'd like to come down to our briefing room, we can go through it together. These murders are just awful, unlike anything we've seen in this area before.” She took a step closer and gestured down the hall, and when Dean followed her gaze, starting to say that they would get a hold of the PD the second they had anything, Lassiter also stepped forward, necessitating Sam to take a step back.

“If you'll follow Detective O'Hara,” he said.

“Of course,” Sam said—they kind of had to, if they wanted those crime scene photos and the information on the victims, since she hadn't actually handed them over yet. While she led the way and Dean stared at her ass, Sam tried to catch his brother's eye, to see if he thought they were actually on to them, or if they, particularly Lassiter, just wanted to make sure they had the upper hand. Dean was too mesmerized, though, and Sam rolled his eyes before almost running directly into O'Hara's well-shaped back. 

“Shawn, Gus,” she said, clearly surprised. “What are you two doing here?”

“Spencer!” Lassiter pushed between Sam and Dean, giving them a chance to gauge each other's ideas about their situation while he yelled at someone already in the room. “That's the last time!” he was saying. “You are _not_ on the case, nor will you _ever_ be on this case. Now get. Out.”

“But Lassie, look, I really think you should check into—”

“Lassie,” Dean murmured, an amused look on his face. “Where'd Timmy go?”

“Maybe we should go now?” Sam said, glancing around.

Too late—O'Hara was stepping aside and motioning them in. “These are the agents assigned to help us on this case—Agents Daltrey and Townshend,” she said.

One of the two guys in the room, the one in the Ratt t-shirt and flannel, glanced up. “The who?”

“Pete Daltrey and Roger Townshend,” Sam said. “And you are...?”

The kid glanced at the room's other occupant and snorted. “I'm the legendary John Moon, and this is my partner, Keith Entwistle. Take the magic bus and whistle us up some Ents, Keith.”

Both of the SBPD's detectives didn't seem to take this as strange, nor did the other guy in the non-ratty clothes, but Dean narrowed his eyes slightly and cracked his knuckles, his signal to Sam that they needed to vamoose asap.

“These two are occasional consultants for our department,” Detective O'Hara said.

“Not occasional enough,” Lassiter said, glaring at the one he'd called Spencer.

“Lassie's just being sassy because no one's giving his assie a passy,” Spencer said breezily, and then suddenly he gave Sam and Dean a piercing look, one that put both of them on edge. “Hi, Shawn Spencer,” he said, his eyes flicking once up and down Dean, and then up and down Sam. “Psychic detective.”

Oh, that explained it. Sam relaxed and shook his hand, and Dean rolled his eyes and did the same. Not that almost all police departments would immediately believe there were such things as psychics—or vampires, or werewolves, or demons, or any of them—but if he was hired by them, even occasionally, he was more likely to have actual psychic tendencies. Dean was done to death about psychics in general, however, and it was clear to him that Detective Lemon Patch was as well.

“Psychic, huh?” Sam said, carefully watching the way his eyes darted around. “What kind?”

“I tend to use my powers for good more than for evil,” Spencer said, shrugging.

“Don't we all,” Dean muttered.

“Right,” Sam said. “I mean—do you have visions, or can you communicate with the dead, or do you get vibrations of the past or future? Do you have any telepathic talent?” He saw Lassiter roll his eyes out of the corner of his eye, but what interested him more was Spencer's sudden glance at his partner, and then at the blonde detective.

“Yeah, all that and a bag of chips,” he said. “Jules, a minute?”

“Shawn, we're in the middle of—”

“Pretty please, with you on top?”

“Shut your mouth and get out of here, Spencer,” Lassiter snapped.

“We'll have her back in mint condition,” Spencer promised, and motioned to his partner. “C'mon Gus, we have to see if Jules wants to come over later and watch that episode of Friends when Monica and Rachel pretend to be each other.” He bounced his eyebrows at O'Hara. “George Clooney from E.R. is in that one, hubba hubba. Don't you love a good crossover episode?”

O'Hara frowned a little, and then she opened the door and led them into the hall. “I really don't have time to—” she began, and Spencer reached forward to pull the door shut.

Dean looked after them for a second, then he glanced at Sam ( _Definitely need to skedaddle, Sammy_ , his eyes said) and then he addressed Lassiter. “So _he's_ gay, huh?” he asked, nodding toward the window in the door.

“What?” Lassiter looked up from the folder, confused, then glanced at the three in the hall. “Spencer?” He shrugged. “Don't know, don't care.”

The door opened. “Detective Lassiter, could I borrow you for a minute?” O'Hara asked, smiling. He frowned slightly but set the folder down and squeezed past her into the hall, and she widened her grin at Sam and Dean. “It'll be just a second, we need to consult with our...” She tilted her head toward Spencer, who had leaned far too close to Lassiter and began murmuring to him, with many hand gestures.

“Consultants?” Sam suggested.

“Just a second,” she promised, and closed the door.

“Goddamn psychics,” Dean muttered. “You think he knows about the vampires?”

“He knows something. Get the folder,” Sam said, and got out his phone to call Bobby for Emergency Distraction #11 while Dean blocked the view to the window with his body and grabbed the pictures out of the folder, switching them with a nearby stack of fliers.

.

“But I talked to their supervisor,” Lassiter was saying, annoyed. “I keep up on all of the latest passcodes, and he knew all of the right calls and answers.”

“Yeah, and little lambs eat ivy,” Shawn said. “Jules, I know what I'm talking about. Those two are faker than—”

“Than you?” Lassiter said, clearly trying not to throw his arms in the air.

Shawn glanced at the window again, then he did a double-take, looked incredulous, and tilted his head toward the room. “Lassie, the one with the awesome hair just said something about vampires, and they're serious.”

Gus gasped. “Vampires? I knew it!”

“There are no vampires, Gus,” Shawn said, too actually freaked out by how serious the taller one had looked when he'd asked about psychic powers to tease him. “But I swear, those two aren't FBI, and I think _they_ think there really are vampires. I'm telling you Lassie, go frisk them!”

“I have no probable cause to—”

“How do you know they're talking about vampires?” Juliet broke in. “I can't hear anything.”

Shawn had read his lips quite easily—it was a fairly distinguishable word, plus he'd been thinking it himself off and on for the past two days, though never as seriously as the grave expressions on the 'agents' faces. He closed his eyes and touched his forehead, throwing out an arm, fairly certain he was going to either punch Lassie in the stomach, or have his arm knocked away. Lassiter must not have been paying attention, so he actually ended up getting a pretty good smack in the solar plexus. “Right there,” Shawn said. “The center of the being, where the soul lives—nothing. It's so cold, and so dark. The sunlight burns us.” He managed to stop just before adding, 'Precious'. “Oh Mary—I need Mary—”

“Mary's little lamb?” Lassiter asked, rubbing his chest and glaring.

“No, she's intoxicating, and all red—”

“A bloody Mary?” Gus suggested.

Shawn clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, it's bloody! No celery, though—gross, wabbit food. I also see something long and sharp—my wit! No, this is even sharper, meant to cut, to slice—oh, Gus, it hurts! It's metal!” He felt for the top of Gus's head, and just managed to set his hand on top of it when Gus ducked away and knocked his arm off. “Not just a hat rack, off with his head!” he said, then fell against the wall and opened his eyes, hoping to see Juliet's wide, awed eyes—instead, he saw the two FBI imposters staring at him from inside the room. Oops.

“Are you trying to tell us that you're the queen?” Lassiter asked dryly.

Shawn dropped his arms to his sides in exasperation. “No, you nimrod, I'm saying—” He paused to slide an arm around Juliet's shoulders, putting his back to the room so they couldn't read his lips, if they could. “—those two are impersonating FBI agents, and they're dangerous. They have huge knives.” He dropped his voice, making Gus and both detectives unconsciously lean closer to him. “They might even be the murderers,” he said, although he was fairly sure they weren't. One K.I.T.T. short of a Knight Rider, definitely, but _probably_ not murderers. 

“They're not,” Lassiter said. “I would have seen that.”

“If staking doesn't work, the only other way of killing a vampire is to cut off its head,” Gus said, his eyes wide. “Uhh—Lassie, you're catholic, right? You have a crucifix I can borrow, just for a little while? Like, until I get to my supply of holy water?”

“I'm not and I don't,” Lassiter said tiredly. “And even if I did, you'd be the second to last person on earth I'd give it to.”

“I thought you went to an all-boys catholic high school?” Shawn said, and then affected a surprisingly good Irish accent. “Ye poor, poor Lass. Come tell Father Shawn all about the lonli—”

“You probably couldn't even enter a church without bursting into flames!” Lassiter said.

Juliet put her hands up. “Boys! Can we please—”

“Detective Lassiter?” They all looked up to see Buzz peeking around the corner, looking worried. “There's a Supervisory Special Agent Slobe—Slobesyer on line one for you, priority one.”

“What?” Lassiter started walking immediately. “O'Hara, I may need you.”

“Juliet, do you happen to have a cru—” Gus began.

“Yes, in my desk.” Juliet sighed and followed Lassiter. “It was my grandmother's, so if I don't get it back, Gus, god help you.”

“Guys!” Shawn protested again, trying to pull at Gus's elbow. His best friend also paid him no mind, which was extremely irritating when he knew for a fact that he was right.

“Hello, this is Detective Carlton Lassiter. Hello? Helllllooo?” Lassie frowned at the phone and looked for the blinking light that showed the caller was still on hold and not cut off while Juliet sat down in her swivel chair and opened her top drawer. “Agent Slobesyer? Hello, are you there?”

Shawn turned around, deciding to keep an eye on the imposters himself, if he had to, and was just in time to see the back end of a floppy-haired moose go around the corner downstairs, followed by a grinning jackass with not-actually-that-awesome hair. 'Agent Daltrey' saw Shawn looking and starting to open his mouth, and he touched his forehead exaggeratedly before mouthing something and exiting.

_Bye, losers._

“Son of a bitch,” Shawn said softly.

.

“Some psychic,” Dean said, flooring his baby. “He's almost as bad as you.”

Sam looked up from the photos of the mutilated bodies and glared. “Screw you, jerk,” he said. “I don't know how his works, but you know mine came and went. He was good enough to catch us almost immediately—we're lucky to even have these.”

Dean waved him off. “Don't need 'em. If there's a nest around here, we'll find it using what Dad taught us.”

“Which will go a lot faster when we know what the police know, like when and where they're choosing their victims.” Sam frowned at a closeup of one of the decapitated women. “Hey, I wonder if there are any other hunters around here. Look at how clean this one is—no one ripped her head off, this was a precise kill.”

“Maybe,” Dean allowed. “So long as it's not Gordon.” He shuddered. “My whackadoo tolerance is extremely low at the moment.”

“He's still in prison,” Sam mused, going through the detectives' notes on the timelines of the victim's last-known whereabouts. 

“Well, why don't you call Bobby, see if he knows if anyone's already got this covered or if we're crashing. I need out of this monkey suit before I go bananas.”

Sam got out his phone and dialed again as Dean headed toward the motel room they'd paid cash for early this morning. “Hey Bobby,” he greeted. “Thanks.”

“You better be thankful,” Bobby said. “That dipstick I had to talk to has a whole game of Pick-Up Sticks up his ass.”

“Lassiter? Yeah, he was worse in person. Listen, I don't know if he said, but we're in Santa Barbara, looks like maybe there's a vamp nest around. We snagged the crime scene pics, and there are two vics that were decapitated, looks like those might have been hunters. You heard anything?”

“Nope, but that don't mean nothin'—I don't exactly subscribe to the daily newsletter.” Bobby paused. “I do know two hunters based in California though, think they're more toward Frisco. 'Spose I could call 'em, see if they heard anything.”

“Thanks, Bobby. Oh, one more thing.” Sam glanced at Dean, who rolled his eyes back, already knowing what he was going to ask. “You ever heard of a psychic called Shawn Spencer?”

“What am I, your only connection to the whole world?” Bobby grumbled. “Is he really psychic?”

“I don't know,” Sam said, frowning. “He picked us out as fakes just about instantly, and he knew we were carrying machetes, even though we didn't have them with us at the time.”

“I still have my loop on,” Dean said. “He probably saw it under my belt and put it together with the vic pics—he was looking at them when we followed Detectives Barbie and Sour Patch Kid in.”

“And knew what it was for?” Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean shrugged and found a parking space, deciding Sam didn't need to know he did have a large knife strapped to the inside of his jacket, just in case.

“Never heard of a Spencer,” Bobby said. “But again, that don't mean nothin'. If he's working with the police, you boys be on your guard double.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, thanks Bobby. Let us know if you do find out we're not the only exterminators in town. No need to crash someone else's raid and end up getting killed ourselves.” He flipped his phone closed and followed his brother into the motel room to change and do some internet searching.

.

Contrary to what his father, his best friend, and SPBD's head detective frequently claimed, Shawn didn't like it when things came too easily. It wasn't about his audience and his dramatic reveals, it wasn't about the recognition, and it wasn't even about that 'aha!' moment that he did, admittedly, love so much he could mainline it for days. Mostly, it was because of that old axiom: If it seems too good to be true... God knew he'd gone head-to-head with that truth time and time again, only to get his ass kicked unfailingly. Forty-seventh time was the charm, and now his first instinct was to be suspicious instead of gleeful when something clicked so quickly.

“This can't be right,” he told the map he was drawing on.

Gus glanced down as he walked by. “You're right,” he said. “I don't think vampires are Wiccan.”

“Don't tell vampires how to live their deaths, Gus.” Shawn looked up, and then choked as his nostrils were assaulted by garlic. “What the hell?” he demanded. “You're not serious, man. You smell like pizza and feet.”

Gus shrugged and crammed another piece of gloopy garlic bread into his face. “I'm being safe, Shawn. If vampires are allergic to my blood, none of them will even want to bite me.”

“I don't think your blood can get garlicky. Great, now the whole office smells like syphilitic squirrels got into the garlic press.” Shawn waved at the cloud surrounding him while Gus shrugged again and nodded to the map, trying to say something and raining rank crumbs. “Stop, for the love of Buffy! Go drink some of your holy water, sheesh.”

Once Gus had ditched the remainder of his snack and gulped half a twenty-ounce bottle of what looked to Shawn like plain old Aquafina, he continued. “I don't think they're Wiccan either,” he said, tracing the lines of the star connecting each of the five points of the victims' abductions. “But, you know, this symbol has all sorts of meaning, tracing back thousands of years. It can be good or bad, depending on what else you're doing with it, and which way the middle point goes, up or down.” He touched it on the map, where it pointed down.

“You're forgetting I dated a Wiccan for a whole week,” Gus said. “I know all this. Did you also know it's the symbol for the Seal of Solomon?” 

Shawn frowned. “I personally don't think anyone threatening to cut a baby in half deserves a gold star, but them's the dark ages, I guess.”

“King Solomon had a good reason for that, that's why it's called the Wisdom of Solomon.”

Shawn shrugged. “Whatever, half a baby is probably more messy, but less loud, than a whole baby.”

“That's messed up, Shawn,” Gus said gravely. “And it's not a gold star, it's used for—” Gus suddenly stopped, his hand over his mouth.

“Rummikub?” Shawn wasn't entirely sure what that was, only that he liked saying it. A roomy cube sounded like a great place to chill.

“For summoning and commanding demons,” Gus said reluctantly, watching Shawn carefully.

“Demons,” he said, and then his eyes widened. “Oh, shit! What if it's not vampires—well, we know it wasn't in the first place, but you know what I mean, what if it's not someone thinking they are—but it's, like, sacrifices? That makes sense, if they think they're, I dunno, conjuring a spell?”

“You don't conjure a spell,” Gus said. “You'd use a spell to conjure something.”

“I broke your salt line,” Shawn said, pointing toward the office's back door. “We're going to get snails.”

Gus jumped to his feet. “You didn't! Shawn!”

“Demonic snails,” he added, and then snorted when Gus sprinted for the door and the can of Morton. He looked at the map again, and then he realized what was in the center of that star. “Buddy!” he called, sweeping the maps and the crumpled sheets of Lassie's notes he'd swiped from the case folder into his arms. “Just use pepper, it'll make 'em sneeze like the Devil! Hurry up, Gus, someone's going to literally die because of your salt overdose! I know where it's going to happen next!”

.

Sam stared at his map of Santa Barbara, where he'd started marking off places victims had either been abducted or found. On a whim, he'd connected the dots, and now he sighed, not sure why he was surprised. “Uh, Dean...”

Dean glanced over, his cheeks crammed with Chester's best, and he almost choked. “No!” he said. “I said I was done with demons this week! Why do vampires need a Devil's Trap?! Pets? Human juice just ain't cutting it anymore?”

“Maybe it's not vampires after all?” Sam suggested. “Look what's in the middle: Magic Circle Storage Warehouse. Why are people even allowed to name warehouses things like that?” He looked outside and saw it was just getting dark, and he stood up to begin strapping up his weapons and protections. Dean threw his bag of cheese puffs onto his bed and started getting ready himself.

.

Lassiter was just securing the latches on his briefcase and getting ready to go home when O'Hara popped to her feet at her desk, her eyes wide. She slammed a hand on top of the handle before he could reach for it, and when he looked up to tell her to get her mitts off, the look in her eyes, her 'Go' face, told him he wasn't going anywhere except with her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It's Shawn,” she said. “He says he knows where someone else is going to go missing, possibly to be murdered. He and Gus are already on their way. It's called—what?” she said into the phone, and grabbed for a pad of paper. Lassiter had a pen held out before she could scramble for one. She flashed him a quick smile in thanks, and scribbled quickly: _Magic Circle, sacrifices? 6th month 6th victim 6th full moon of year_. Lassiter was briefly mystified at this, until he recognized the name of a warehouse, and remembered that only three of the five missing persons had been found, none of them alive.

“Tell Spencer to stay put,” he ordered. “O'Hara, you and I will check this out and see if it warrants any backup, _not_ including them.”

She nodded and started the relay the message before trailing off, listening, and then rolling her eyes. “We'll be right there. Do _not_ go inside,” she said, and hung up. “They're already there,” she told her partner.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and turned, walking quickly toward the door. “Of course they are. At least they _bothered_ to call us this time. What were your notes? I recognize the Magic Circle Warehouse—stupid name—but the three sixes... oh, for the love of God.”

“Hopefully,” O'Hara agreed.

.

“Much like the British, Lassie and Jules are coming,” Shawn told Gus, pocketing his phone. They were parked across the street from the Magic Circle, and he couldn't see much of anything.

“I don't hear anything,” Gus said, craning his neck to gain that crucial inch and a half.

Shawn unbuckled his seat belt. “C'mon.”

“No!” Gus grabbed his arm so hard Shawn yelped.

“Ow! Let me go, your nails are weirdly nice, and sharp!”

“Shhh!” Gus looked actually scared, so Shawn shut up, though he pried his fingers off and examined his forearm for blood. “The vampires and demons might hear you,” Gus whispered.

“If there really are vampires, they already know we're here,” Shawn said reasonably. “They'll have heard the car, and they can probably smell us, or hear our heartbeats. That and you just freaking clawed me.”

“I'm sorry Shawn, I'm so sorry if they get you, I promise I'll be the good friend that stakes you quickly, so it doesn't hurt, and I'll even be the one that tells your dad you went down in a blaze of glory like he always wanted—”

“Oh my god!” Shawn hissed, torn between hysterical laughter at the idea of Gus explaining to Henry that he put a motherfucking _stake_ through his son's heart because he was _on the vein_ in an entirely new and interesting way, and exasperation that Gus couldn't just deal with the fact that some people—some perfectly human people—were just kakka for cuckoo puffs. Though, to be fair, Gus had a point in not wanting to be the next human sacrifice, no matter what sort of being the murderers were. “I just want to walk around the block,” Shawn said softly. “There's lots of lights over there. I want to see if there's a car or anything.” He also wanted to see if there was a way to sneak in through the fence without going over it, but Gus was a spur-of-the-moment sort if ever there was one.

“They'll get us!” Gus squeaked.

Shawn grinned—Gus had said “us”, like he always did. No matter what asinine thing Shawn wanted to do, his best friend was right there behind him. He held up something he'd gotten from one of the drawers of his desk in the office. “The power of Christ is totally imbibed in this, buddy,” he said solemnly.

Gus stopped quaking long enough to give him his most incredulous look yet. “Shawn,” he said slowly. “Have you been saving that from Easter?”

He considered the chocolate crucifix. Wasn't it more Jesusy if it had a bunny on it? “Not saving it, exactly. Really, I forgot it was there. But it's a cross, isn't it? And hey, if it's from Easter, it's probably more religious.” He reached for his car door and looked back, his best charming smile on. “And if they do come for us, we'll have a great snack in our last minutes. I'm pretty sure this is filled with peanut butter.”

.

“No EMF,” Dean said doubtfully, glaring at the warehouse before checking his meter again. “Nope, not even a twitch. You checked for omens?”

“Nada,” Sam confirmed. The sky was dark but clear, none of the streetlamps were flickering... there wasn't a lot of cattle around Santa Barbara, but the most recent rainstorms hadn't even been accompanied by lightning. The only things out of the ordinary in this town were the missing and the mutilated. “Should we go in and check around, you think?”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said softly, and when Sam followed his gaze, he felt an urge to do something he hadn't done in all of his years hunting—to rub his eyes in disbelief. “You check up on that little shit?” Dean asked, narrowing his eyes at the two guys who were having an animated argument near a split in the chain fence. 

“Shawn Spencer, born February 1979,” Sam recited, watching him attempt to dodge his friend and go underneath his arm, but he was yanked back instantly. “His dad was a police detective until he took early retirement, his mother's a psychologist, divorced when he was a teenager. Only child, tested genius IQ, ADD, the works. Runs the Psych Agency with the other guy, Guster.” He paused, still unsure what to think. “They've been in the local news a lot in the last year, and almost all of it for solving cases with the PD. That little dance he did in the hall that we saw is his m.o.”

“Dance?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “So you don't believe he's psychic.”

“I don't know—and I don't think it matters.” Sam nodded toward the warehouse again, where Spencer had managed to get around Guster and was going for the building while Guster did a Donald Duck for a moment before slipping through the fence and following him. 

“And his partner?” 

“Uhh, no, nothing that stands out. He sells pharmaceuticals but has an impeccable record.” Sam sighed and got out of the car after Dean, going to the trunk so they could load up. “From what I could tell, they've been friends since childhood, but they're just business partners,” Sam added nonchalantly.

Dean glanced at him. “Huh?”

“You asked Lassiter if they were gay,” Sam reminded him. “I'm pretty sure not.”

“Goody for them,” Dean said after a moment. “Why am I supposed to care?”

“Why'd you ask Lassiter?”

“Jesus Sammy, I was trying to keep him from figuring out what we were up to,” Dean said, rolling his eyes again. “And he just gave off that vibe, I don't know, maybe it was all the talking about George Clooney. I was really more interested in getting that file before we got caught out, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam said, taking his machete and securing it to his belt. He knew Dean could do this for years, if he had them, and right now they had some dumbass civilians to save from themselves, along with the vampires, or demons, or whatever, to clean up. He just wished that, in this last year if nothing else, his brother could be free of his own trappings. “Let's go,” he said. Dean slammed the trunk of the car and headed across the street, and Sam followed him.

.

Converging on the warehouse almost in tandem: Shawn and Gus, Lassiter and O'Hara, Sam and Dean.

Shawn and Gus heard a throaty growling as they sneaked along one of the walls inside, and they whirled around to find themselves face-to-face with something that had red eyes and a mouthful long, sharp fangs. They shrieked. 

O'Hara yanked open the fire door, Lassiter sliding past her with his gun drawn. For the first time during his career as a detective, it wavered when he saw who—or what—was standing over Spencer. He didn't wait for O'Hara, and knew he didn't have to. They charged.

Sam and Dean hesitated for just a moment, long enough to look at each other incredulously, when they saw the mess of five other people at the far end of the warehouse: the maybe-psychic was cowering on the floor, his partner flat against his back on a nearby wall. In front of the psychic was the tall, skinny detective, his gun pointed into the vampire's face; his partner was between Spencer and Guster, her gun also pointed. Both detectives shouted orders, and the vampire smiled, showing all of its teeth. One second it was grinning its insane leer at Lassiter, and the next, it had moved, grabbing him by the shoulders. Sam and Dean watched in horror as it slammed him against a wall, and then yanked him to the side as O'Hara fired, too slowly. It laughed, a sound that made all of the humans' spines twinge. As O'Hara raised her gun to take aim again, the vampire's wrist was suddenly rubbing a red smear across Lassiter's mouth, and she fired, not missing, but unable to kill or even maim the creature. All of this had happened in just a couple of seconds, but when Sam and Dean saw the vampire's blood, they knew what it meant, and they exchanged a look, gripping their machetes grimly. They ran.


	2. Chapter 2

Four people surrounded Lassiter, all shouting either questions or warnings. He reached out blindly, shoving Spencer to the side roughly as he escaped their circle long enough to fall to his knees on the dirty floor, retching until he felt like his insides would come loose. He could hear his partner alternately calling his name and Spencer's, trying to get either of them to acknowledge being all right, but he still couldn't speak. 

“Did you swallow?” Sam asked repeatedly. “The blood—did you swallow it?”

“No!” Lassiter snapped, and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away dark red.

“Throw up!” Dean commanded, holding his machete at the ready. “Now!”

“I did!” Lassiter said, and spat once more. “What the _fuck_. I'm going to puke for _five years_.”

“Continuously?” Shawn asked. Lassiter looked up and gave him such a dark look that his slightly amused expression dropped from his face as if he had been slapped. “Sorry,” he said in a small voice. “Lassie... I'm sorry.”

“You should be,” Lassiter said venomously. “What part of _do not enter the building_ escaped you this time?”

“I'm sorry,” Shawn said again, his eyes wide and his voice now barely more than a whisper. “Are—are you okay?”

Lassiter ignored him for the moment and managed to get to his feet, raising his gun between the two men who had come in after them. “Drop your weapons,” he said. “O'Hara, where did that disgusting son of a bitch go?”

She started, dragging her gaze away from Spencer's solemn face to look around almost wildly. “It—he—”

“Gone,” Shawn said. “Ran away when it saw it was outnumbered.” His eyes slid away from O'Hara and toward the newcomers almost casually. “Vampire hunters,” he mused. “Gus, you were right.”

“Good spot, genius,” Dean snapped. “Some fucking psychic you are, or you've got some kind of death wish. Why the hell would you even come in here if you knew it was here? You don't even have any weapons!”

“Not true,” Shawn insisted. “I have my scathing wit. And I didn't know _vampires_ were real—I thought you two were just crazy.”

“Dean,” Sam said quietly, his eyes never leaving Lassiter and the gun in his hands. He held up his own, but didn't drop his machete. “Detective, do you feel all right?”

“Don't worry about how I feel,” Lassiter said, raising his gun a little. “Drop those weapons right now. I guess that's one for you, Spencer, unless it's standard ops for FBI to dress like dropouts and charge into unsecured buildings with twenty-four inch blades.”

“Drop your weapons,” O'Hara repeated, aiming her gun at Sam while Lassiter focused his on Dean. “Shawn, back up slowly and go stand by Gus.”

“It's _really_ important,” Sam said to Lassiter, speaking very slowly. “We're not a danger to you right now, okay? If there's the slightest possibility you swallowed some of that blood, we all need to calm down and think about what to do next.”

There was a terrified gasp from the wall. “Lassie's a vampire,” Gus said.

“Shut it, Guster,” Lassiter said. “That stopped being funny a year ago.”

“No one's laughing,” Shawn said, and that statement, plus his soft, serious voice, made Lassiter finally glance at him. He was studying both of the newcomers carefully, and then he looked at O'Hara. “Jules,” he said. “You saw what I did, didn't you?”

She tore her eyes away from Sam and looked at him, her mouth slightly open. “I... I don't know what I saw,” she said finally.

“What are you talking about?” Lassiter snapped. “All I see are two suspects who are still holding knives. This is your last warning to drop them and stand down.”

“Please, Detective, calm down,” Sam said. “There's more at stake here than you can imagine.”

“O'Hara knows damn well what she saw,” Dean said flatly, and he looked at her. “That thing wasn't human. I'm sorry, but your partner's infected, and there's nothing we can do for him. You're going to be really sorry if you don't take a step back and let us explain.”

“Just for two minutes, please,” Sam added, his hands still raised near his head. “Lassiter, this could mean your life. Look at me—I'm not kidding.”

“You mean that freak had something?” Lassiter had to stop another retch.

“Oh, uh huh,” Dean said. “Just about the nastiest virus ever known to man, and there's no cure.”

“If you say 'vampires' one more time, Daltrey, I swear to god—”

“C'mon Lassie, those aren't their real names,” Shawn broke in. “They were pretending to be FBI to get the crime scene photos and information on the victims to kill the vampire.” He paused. “And using mixed-up rock star names for aliases. Dudes, seriously? The Who?”

“Hey, shut up,” Dean said. “Pinball Wizard is a great tune. What do you listen to, Cyndi Lauper?”

“I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean,” Sam said. “You were right, Shawn—we're hunters. But not just vampires, of just about anything you've ever heard of. You name it, we kill it.”

“Every nightmare you've ever had, lurking under your bed,” Dean added, watching Lassiter. “Most of them are real. There's not really that many, but there are even fewer of us, and we do what we can. We'll get that asshole killing people in your town, if someone else doesn't beat us to it.” He folded his arms. “But first things first. You still have some of its blood on your mouth, and that's how they turn you. The bite doesn't do jack, but if you get any of its blood in your mouth, it's so long and thanks for all the fish.”

Lassiter wiped at his lips again, hard. “I spit it out,” he said. “ _And_ I vomited. And you're crazy if you think I'm going to believe this crock.”

“You didn't see its teeth?” Sam asked, and then motioned to O'Hara and Shawn. “They did.”

“Kinda hard not to, when they were almost in my face,” Shawn said. He looked at Juliet, and so did everyone else. “Jules,” he said softly. “Lassie's not going to believe any one of us other than you. Tell him you saw it, because he's in danger. This is real.”

“Shawn,” she pleaded, the end of her gun shaking very slightly. “Vampires? I... I guess if you're psychic, then maybe—”

Shawn turned toward Sam and Dean. “Is there a test?” he asked. “I mean, obviously he's not sprouting fangs and trying to come for any of our necks. Is there any way to tell if he's turning, if the vampire blood got him anyway?”

“Stop saying vampires!” Lassiter shouted. 

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Maybe,” Dean said slowly. “Look—can we all just chill for a minute?” He made eye-contact with Lassiter's partner, recognizing her as the only one he hadn't shouted at or disputed. “Two minutes,” he said. “You _know_ you saw that thing. I'll even go you one further—you get him to let us figure out whether he's infected or not, and then we'll ditch the knives and go with you quietly.”

“You stop talking to her,” Lassiter commanded, “and drop the knives anyway.”

“Jules, do you trust _me_?” Shawn asked. “ _I'm_ telling you that these guys are telling the truth. What can two minutes hurt?”

“What's the test?” she asked warily. “Gus has my crucifix, if that—”

“That doesn't work,” Dean said. “Almost all vampire lore is bogus, which is what makes the few that are left even more dangerous when someone thinks they spot one, because what they think will keep them safe is just a pipe dream. You're not safe during the day, for one, because sunlight won't kill them. We've seen them out in it.”

“Garlic,” Shawn said, giving Gus an exasperated look.

“Nope—and I don't even want to know where that one came from.”

“Seriously, what's the point of being an undead superbeing if you can't have a good pizza?”

“What is the test?” O'Hara repeated.

“A swig of holy water,” Dean said, and Shawn frowned, seeing Sam's eyes flicker toward him. “Just a little one. That's it.” He spread his hands. “If he's not infected, nothing will happen, because there won't be anything changed in him to react to it.”

“And you just happen to have holy water,” Lassiter said.

“We're hunters,” Sam said, not adding that they were still not completely convinced that there weren't any demons around.

“I have some,” Gus added.

Shawn rounded on him. “Some good will that Lassie will turn out to be just fine and these excellent gents here will dispatch our fanged friend and we'll all live happily ever after,” he said quickly. Gus looked confused, and when Shawn widened his eyes at him, Gus returned his gaze to the floor.

O'Hara was lowering her gun, pointing it at the floor between Sam and Dean. “Carlton,” she said softly. “That thing—”

“Oh come _on_ ,” he said, disgusted. “Not you too. What I need is a blood test for _hepatitis_ , not vampirism.”

“If you humor them, we can apprehend them easily, with no chance for further bloodshed,” she said. “Holy water is harmless. And I'll take care of all of our paperwork for this,” she added, seeing that he wasn't yet moved.

He raised his eyebrows at that. “Really?”

Juliet had to smile at that. “Yes,” she said. “All of it. And Shawn will stay out of our way every step of this case until it's closed, won't you, Shawn?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said, doing it, his voice rapid, “stick a needle in my eye, eat a cow manure pie—”

“I got it,” Lassiter said, irritated. He frowned again, glancing between O'Hara and Shawn, and Sam and Dean sneaked another look at each other, confirming what they were going to do. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “Give me your goddamn holy water so I can prove I'm not a fairy tale monster. And then, once everyone's satisfied, I'm going to have these two on the biggest weapons charge I can find before signing _both_ of you up for a kindergarten class on fact or fiction,” he said, giving his partner and the psychic another fierce look.

“Chupacabra,” Shawn said to Sam. 

“What?”

“Is it real?”

“Yeah.”

Shawn looked over at Gus again. “I owe you lunch on that one.”

“You owe me seven thousand lunches,” Gus said, and then glanced at Sam himself. “Bigfoot.”

“Hoax,” Sam said, watching his brother slowly reach into his jacket. Dean came out with a small bottle, but not the one he stored holy water in. Of course, Sam had known what he was going for the second he'd said it, because holy water had no effect on vampires. He only hoped that if the detective was infected, and he did have a reaction, the other one wouldn't freak and start shooting. They'd have to figure out a way to get the gun away from her before they could take care of him, and then get themselves away after cleaning up.

“Just have a swallow of this and remain standing, and we'll be convinced,” Dean said.

“Right now you are the last person in the entire world I care to convince of anything,” Lassiter said, glaring, but he took the bottle and gave it a dubious look.

“Cool, I've been bumped up,” Shawn said softly. 

Lassiter looked at O'Hara, slightly uneasy because of how intently she was watching him. He'd seen something too, of course, but it had all happened so _fast_ , and then there was that _thing_ in his mouth, so horrible it felt like his insides were trying to escape him. Everyone was watching him, so he rolled his eyes again and upended the small flask. It tasted horrible, and he gagged, realizing too late that it wasn't holy water. He dropped it, and then he dropped to his knees, trying to grab at his throat. Something was wrong, very wrong. He didn't feel even close to all right any more. He could hear O'Hara and Spencer calling to him, but their voices were too far away. Everything faded as he crumpled to the floor.

“No, don't!” Sam said, grabbing Shawn's elbow as he tried to push past him. “Trust me, man, you need to hang on a minute.”

“What was it?” Shawn demanded. “What'd you really give him?”

“Dean man's blood,” Dean said grimly, and tightened his grip on his machete. “It's like poison to vampires. He's turning.” He made eye contact with his brother. “Let's make it quick, Sam.”

“Make what quick?” Shawn asked, his panicked tone saying he already knew.

“Hang on,” Sam said again, having to hold the psychic again when he tried to jerk away. “Dean—”

Dean had taken another step toward the detective on the ground, but he stopped when the other one raised her gun again, her face white and her lips pressed together. “Don't you go near my partner,” she said. “This is your only warning.”

Dean saw that she meant it, and he raised the hand not holding the machete. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You saw the vampire, and you saw that he reacted to the vampire poison, so I'm sure you can get what that means. There's nothing we can do for him, and you wouldn't want him hurting anyone, would you? Putting more bodies on the ground like the ones you're trying to stop? I can tell you're a good cop, so I know you don't.”

Sam had been trying to figure out how he could let Dean know what he knew with the smallest amount of upheaval, and when he unconsciously loosened his grip, Shawn yanked his arm away and went for Lassiter, standing in front of him. “Hey, get back!” Sam warned. “We don't know how long that stuff will last!”

Shawn gave him a cold look, and then he bent down and grabbed the gun Lassiter had been holding. Sam made to step closer to him, but Shawn was very quick, and had the gun aimed directly at Sam's stomach. “No, no, Nanette,” he said. Gus was moaning and saying, 'oh my god' over and over, his eyes going between the four of them quickly.

“Listen, you jackass, Detective Dick is a vampire vic!” Dean said.

“Sweet rhyme, but I'm with Jules,” Shawn said. “No one's hurting him. He hasn't done anything.”

Dean pointed to Lassiter, who still looked unconscious, with the tip of his machete. “Sam's right, we don't know how long that'll last, especially since he only had barely a sip. He's _turning_ , I know you believe _that_. Any minute now he's going to wake up hungry, and he's going to attack, and _guns_ won't be worth a squirt of warm piss. You need to let us take care of the problem _you_ caused by blundering in here.”

“I get that,” Shawn said steadily. “But if you or Sam take one more step toward Lassie I'm going to kill you.” His face was entirely serious, and his reflexes were too good to chance. Gus slid down the wall slowly, his hands covering most of his face.

“Put down your weapons,” Juliet said. “Shawn, we need to get Carlton to a hospital.”

“Bad move,” Sam said. “They can't help him, and they'd just lock him away. Look, I'm putting mine down, okay? I need everyone to stop and listen to me for a minute, please. Everyone.” When even Dean was looking at him, albeit impatiently, Sam very slowly bent and put his machete down, though still within his reach. “Listen,” he said again. “There might— _might_ —be something we can do. I don't know if it'll work, because as far as I know it's untested.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Dean asked. “You saying you've heard of a vamp cure? Sammy, you know it's all crap.” 

“I think you'll take this one seriously,” he said. “I need to get something from the car and I can show you.” He saw movement behind Shawn's feet, and he almost grabbed for his machete before realizing Shawn and Juliet weren't looking, and they might shoot him. “Shawn,” he said softly, raising his hands. “Can you please take two steps forward? He's waking up.”

“I know,” Shawn said, unmoving. “Lassie? Are you okay?” He tensed when he heard him make a small pained noise, but he didn't dare take his eyes from the tree of a man with the huge knife near his feet, unwilling to make Juliet keep them both under her guard.

Lassiter was breathing shallowly, unable to open his eyes because the few sixty watt bulbs were brighter than the sun. “No,” he managed, starting to pant at the floor when pain ripped through his entire body and then twisted. 

Dean glared at Juliet. “Your partner's about to literally tear the living shit out of your psychic, and then he's going to go for us. You got _seconds_ , lady, so you want to point that somewhere else.”

“No, I don't,” she said. “Carlton? Are you—are you—” She couldn't even think of a way to finish the question, since he'd already told Shawn that no, he wasn't okay. Alive? Human? She could see him out of the corner of her eye, pulling his legs up until he was nearly in the fetal position, and they could all hear him groan again. 

“You gave us two minutes before,” Sam said quickly. “Let's give him another shot of the dead man's blood to knock him out again, and we can see about the possible cure.”

“There's no cure!” Dean said, rolling his eyes. 

“It spilled,” Shawn added. “Unless you have more.”

“Not with us.” Sam glanced at the wall Guster was near. “Pipes,” he said. “Detective O'Hara, do you have handcuffs? Please, just let us make everyone safe for a few minutes, and maybe we can try to save him, to turn him back.”

“Sam!” Dean barked. “What the hell are you doing? We're wasting time!” He pointed at Shawn. “You're going to get your smart ass killed—you're psychic, tell me if I'm lying.”

Shawn hesitated. “Sam's not lying,” he said, and flicked his eyes toward Juliet. “Cuffs, Jules?”

“Okay, I'm done with all of you,” Dean said, and headed for the new vampire. Shawn took a step back, now very within Lassiter's reach, and he and Juliet both aimed at his chest. Dean ignored Juliet and gave Shawn a contemptuous look. “You think I'm afraid of you?”

“I don't think you're afraid of anything,” Shawn said. “But I'm not trying to scare you—I mean it, I'll kill you.”

“And?” Dean challenged.

“Who has a death wish now? Ohh, I get it. You're dying, so you've got nothing to lose.” He considered Dean for a few seconds, and then turned his gun on Sam again. “But I bet you're afraid for your brother. How about I shoot _him_ if you don't back off?”

Dean froze. “You hurt my brother and I'll kill you.”

“Yeah, yeah, bloodbaths all around. Sorry Jules, looks like there's going to be more paperwork than you thought.”

“No one needs to hurt or kill anyone,” Sam said, and took a chance. “Detective Lassiter? Do you agree that securing you temporarily so that we can look into a cure is a good idea? They'll be your partner's handcuffs, and she can keep the keys.”

Lassiter tried to open his eyes, but had to put his hands over his face again. He was shaking, much of the pain that had kept him on the ground localizing in his abdomen in a familiar way, but to a degree he'd never experienced before. He was hungry, _so_ hungry, and he could... hear their blood. “Yes,” he said. “Stop this, I don't care how. I can't—”

“Can't stop yourself from attacking much longer?” Dean asked.

Shawn gave him a dirty look. “It's okay Lassie,” he said. “We're not going to let them kill you.”

“No, you're just going to let him kill _you_ ,” Dean sneered. 

Shawn shrugged. “He saved me,” he said simply.

“Can you make it to that wall, Detective?” Sam asked Lassiter. “It's about twenty feet away, and there's a couple of pipes near Guster. Quickly, if you can.”

“Oh _hell_ no,” Gus said, scrambling to his feet and dashing behind Juliet.

“Move, Spencer,” Lassiter said. Shawn hesitated again, but slowly stepped to the side, keeping the gun aimed in Sam's direction. Lassiter tried to stand up, but his stomach cramped viciously and he fell down again; Spencer moved toward him and he reacted without knowing what was happening—he growled in warning, and his mouth _changed_. He clapped both hands over his face again, but not before seeing shocked horror on Spencer's and O'Hara's faces.

“Step back farther, give him more room,” Sam said, waving at Shawn. This time he obeyed, and they all watched as Lassiter crawled to the wall and collapsed against it. He turned around with his back to the wall, reached behind him, and came out with his own cuffs. He flicked them open, secured one of the bracelets around one of his wrists, and fastened the other loop around a pipe to his right in one fluid motion. He relaxed slightly, now that he would be unable to make a grab for any of them unless they got too close.

“Not good enough,” Dean said to O'Hara. “With one arm free, a vampire could break either the chain or the pipe if it got hungry enough. Your cuffs for his other arm.”

Juliet looked at her partner, bewildered and dismayed. She slowly reached for her cuffs, the tip of her gun lowering. “Who's going to put them on him? He can't do that side by himself.”

“I will,” Sam said. He showed her both of his palms, and then slowly bent for his machete. “I'll take this with just in case, but I can be quick. I don't _want_ to kill him, do you believe me?”

“Yes,” she said softly, but she glanced at Shawn instead of holding out her handcuffs. “Shawn? Is he telling the truth?”

Shawn looked at Sam for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “He doesn't want to. But that doesn't mean he won't.”

“I won't unless I absolutely have to,” Sam promised.

Shawn held his hand out to Juliet. “Give them to me, I'll do it.”

“No,” Dean said. “Let Sam do it.”

“Lassie won't hurt me,” Shawn insisted. “We were just about to announce our engagement.”

“Yeah, I don't doubt it.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You see his fangs? He's hungry, and you're lunch.”

“I'm also fast,” Shawn said.

“No, Spencer,” Lassiter said, and couldn't help licking his lips. “I can—I can smell your blood. Stay back.”

Shawn looked down at his arm, which had been badly scraped when the vampire jumped at him and he fell over. His shoulders slumped and he looked crushed, not voicing any further protest when Sam slowly walked toward Juliet and took the handcuffs from her.

“I'm going to come over on your left side, Detective,” Sam said, opening both bracelets. “Can you hold your arm up by that other pipe? Thanks.” He slipped one of the cuffs around the pipe first, then snapped the other around Lassiter's wrist and backed up quickly. Sam and Dean both breathed heavy sighs, and then Sam turned to the others. “Okay,” he said. “Dean... I don't know if you know, but Dad's journal... it, well—”

“Doesn't say jack shit about a vamp cure?” Dean said, his eyes narrowed.

“Um... actually, it did.” He faced his brother calmly, wishing it didn't have to be now that this was shoved into the open, but needs must, if they wanted to have any shot at all at saving the man who was a good cop, despite his abrasive nature. “There were some pages torn out,” Sam went on. “I found a few of them last year., and one mentions a possible reversal for vampirism. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it wasn't important then, and now maybe, if it's true, it can do some good.”

Dean gave him an incredulous look. “You're freaking _kidding me_ ,” he said. “Of all the stunts and secrets you pull—”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure that none of us here care about your brotherly spats,” Shawn said loudly. “You can go tattle to your daddy later. Less fury, more cure-y.”

Dean rounded on him. “Our dad is _dead_ , so you can shut the fuck up, smart ass.”

“My partner is handcuffed to a wall,” Juliet reminded him. “Do you, or do you not, have a way to help him?”

“We _might_ ,” Sam said. “The pages are in the car. I'll be right back. Under _no_ circumstances approach him, because if I remember correctly, even if it's true, if he feeds at all it won't work. Even one drop.”

Juliet flicked the tip of her gun toward the door. “Go. Quickly.”

“This ain't even _close_ to over, buddy-roo,” Dean said after Sam as he turned and hurried out.

“Jules,” Shawn said, and when she glanced at him, he nodded toward Dean. “You got him?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

Shawn had been watching Lassiter's face, which was scrunched up in pain, and the way he was squirming, indicating stomach or chest cramps. “Lassie?” he asked softly. “Are you okay, man?”

Lassiter found that he could stop the new teeth from popping down, but it hurt to keep them back. “No,” he managed, and then couldn't help a whimper as another wave of pain, more than he'd ever known in his life, sliced into him.

“You want some water?” Shawn offered. “I don't—that probably won't help, but maybe?”

Lassiter licked his lips again at the thought of a cool drink. “Yes, please.”

“Gus, give me your stupid holy water,” Shawn ordered, holding his hand out. Gus reluctantly held out the Aquafina bottle, and when Shawn took it, he glanced at Dean. “I'm pretty sure this is plain water, but just in case, does holy water hurt vampires?”

“No,” Dean said. “But you still shouldn't get too close. Hey, moron, he's going to get you!” he added, when Shawn immediately headed for Lassiter.

Shawn whipped around, his face angry and guilty. “Then he can have me!” he shouted. “This is my fault! That should be _me_ right there, but he _saved_ me from that thing, and I—and just fuck off!” he spat, and dropped to his knees in front of Lassiter. 

Dean raised his machete slightly, and Juliet stared him down, her gun level. She heard Shawn say, “Hey, here you go,” softly, and then there was a soft slurping sound. “Shawn?” she asked, not turning away from Dean. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine, it's just the water.”

Dean was watching closely, almost unaware of how closely Juliet was watching him. “You're betting your soul on that little refreshment,” he warned. “He already said he wants your blood.”

“I can't help it that I'm delicious,” Shawn said stubbornly, and then he pulled the bottle away from Lassiter's mouth when it was empty. “Better?” he asked.

“Thank you,” Lassiter said quietly, not looking at him. “But Dean is right. You need to get back and stay back.”

“Okay.” Shawn just looked at him for a few seconds, and then he backed away until he could get to his feet and stand near Juliet again.

Sam came back into the building, a few small sheets of paper in his hands. “Got 'em,” he said. “I was right. If the vampire that was just turned doesn't feed, and if you can get the blood of the vampire that turned him, it _might_ be able to change him back.”

“What?” Dean demanded, and yanked the top sheet out of his brother's hands. Sam made a grab for it, but Dean stepped away from him and held it up a little so that the light could fall on it.

Shawn squinted at the side facing them, and then he snorted. “So you're gay, huh Dean? Wouldn't have guessed.”

Dean's eyes flicked over to him. “Excuse you?” he said warningly. 

Shawn touched his forehead. “Your dad thought so,” he said. “I'm getting some serious vibes from his handwriting. He wasn't sure how to ask you. Wow, he wasn't even sure he really wanted to know.”

“How'd you like to get to know the floor?”

Sam gave Shawn a sidelong look, and then he reached for the paper Dean was holding. He gently turned it over and when Dean glanced down at it, his mouth dropped open.

_August 9, 1994_

_I'm worried about Dean, and I don't know what can be done, if anything. He hasn't said anything outright, and a good, tough hunter he's growing into, but maybe a father just knows. Mary I know you would say it doesn't matter, but if our oldest son is gay, that I don't know how to handle. Dean is only fifteen, it's possible he doesn't know himself or he just needs guidance, but I don't even know how to bring it up, defensive as he can be. If he says something, we'll deal with it if we have to. The job comes first, and that he can do above everything. I doubt he will ever bring it up, and perhaps that's best._

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said quietly, his face frozen. When no one said anything, he looked up at his brother, turning his shock back into anger. “What the fuck, Sam. You didn't think I deserved to know about this? What the hell else are you hiding?” He grabbed for the rest of the sheets of paper, and Sam let him take them.

“Nothing, Dean,” he said calmly. “The rest of this is more about vampires and a witch in Tucson. I didn't tell you before because you clearly weren't ready, and really, man, now's not the time either.”

“Now's the time to punch you in the face,” Dean said, gripping the journal pages too tightly.

Sam lifted his arms and let them drop. “Then do it, I don't care. If that's what you need to get back on track here, then fine. But you can have a fit about this later, after we're done trying to help these people, remember?” He gestured to the others, and Dean looked at them suspiciously.

“Dude, no one here gives a Hershey's squirt if you like dudes,” Shawn said. “You know what we care about?” He pointed. “Lassie. He's messed up, and he's hurting. How do we find the vampire that changed him?”

“ _We_ don't,” Sam said. “Dean and I will go after him, you guys need to stay here and watch him.” He nodded toward Lassiter, who was grimacing and starting to twitch, making the chains of the handcuffs rattle very slightly.

“This will never work,” Dean said, looking at the notes again. “I've never heard of this, and I'll bet you a thousand clams Bobby's never heard of it.” He slammed the entire pile of paper into Sam's chest, forcing him to take them before they fell to the ground. “This is ridiculous, and we're just beating our gums and dancing around it. You know what we have to do.”

Sam shook his head. “No, Dean. Come on—we let Lenore and her nest go, because they weren't hurting people. This guy hasn't hurt anyone, he hasn't even fed.”

“That chick and the rest of them had each other,” Dean said. “They knew what they were doing, and they were only able to choke down the cow blood because they knew what hunters would do them otherwise. Mr. Bean over there is not only fresh-made, which means he'd have an even harder time controlling himself, but he's alone. He's hungry, he bites, and he kills.”

“He's not alone,” Juliet said. “We know.”

“You people didn't know jack shit about vampires or any of this until half an hour ago,” Dean told her. “You gonna be able to stop him from latching onto someone's neck and chewing a hole in it? Because one-two-three-red-light isn't going to do it. He's not human anymore.”

“What happened to _saving_ people?” Sam demanded. “I thought after we met Lenore you saw that not every nonhuman is necessarily evil, not all of them hurt people. If that reversal wouldn't work, there are other ways to get blood without killing.”

“There's always me,” Shawn said, very softly, and looked unflinchingly at Juliet and Gus when they glanced at him.

“So your plan is to track the vamp that turned him, somehow get its blood before killing it, then make it back here before he gets so hungry he breaks his own arms trying to get out of those cuffs to feed,” Dean said. “I didn't even see its face, did you?”

“I did,” Shawn and Juliet said together.

Dean shook his head. “There's not enough time for that, and there's no way it would work.”

“Oh, okay,” Shawn snapped. “That totally means we shouldn't even try.”

“He's right,” Sam said. “I want to try. I didn't see its face, not really, but I'll take Shawn with me if you don't want to go with—you can keep an eye on him and these two.”

“Please, like you can handle a vamp nest without me,” Dean scoffed. He rolled his eyes and then shrugged. “Fine, _fine_.” He pointed at Shawn. “But he's not going. He's too freaking squirrelly, and I don't like his face.”

“I don't like your hair,” Shawn said. “And I'm so too coming—neither of you knows what it looks like, and I can handle a gun.”

“Good for you,” Dean said. “That won't help, they can't be killed that way.”

“I'll go,” Juliet said, and tucked her gun back into its holster. “I got a good look at him, and I took a course in defense with knives.”

“Can you handle a machete?” Sam asked, his eyebrows raised. “I mean, using it?”

“I'll do whatever it takes,” she said simply. 

Dean nodded approvingly. “Okay, Barbie's on board, she knows what she's doing.”

She flashed her eyes at him, her lips pressed together and her game face back on. “Call me that again and I'll cut your brain stem a little bit,” she said. Dean looked amused as he slid his machete into its loop.

“Good choice, she's terrifying,” Shawn said, and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Go scare the undead shit out of them, Jules.”

“Can you two handle being here alone with him?” Sam asked Shawn and Gus, nodding toward Lassiter.

“Sure,” Shawn said. “We're just going to have a sit and dish about boys. You're not invited,” he added to Dean, and then he hooked his fingers in the corners of his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

Dean rolled his eyes again. “You don't know when to quit, do you? It ain't my fault a vamp got someone you have a big gooey crush on, but if you want me and my brother to risk our lives trying to help, you should stop being such a dick.”

“You were ready to cut off his head because it was too much work to even try to help ten minutes ago,” Shawn shot back. “Who's the dick?”

“You're both dicks,” Lassiter muttered, and everyone looked at him in surprise, as he hadn't spoken since Shawn had given him the water. “If you're going to try to help me, can you please shut up and do it?” Juliet tried to go to him, but stopped a few feet away when he flinched against the wall and shook his head fiercely. “Don't come near me,” he warned. “You're bleeding too, and I—I—” He had to focus all of his will to keep the second set of sharp teeth from breaking out again.

Juliet looked over her arms, confused. “I'm not.”

“You bit your lip earlier,” he said quietly. “Please hurry.”

She took a deep breath and then nodded. “I'll do whatever I have to, Carlton, I promise.”

“Shawn, your arm is all bloody too,” Gus said worriedly.

He looked at the scrape, which was long, but already clotted. “It was a love bite from the ground,” he said, and shrugged. “I'm fine.”

“I have a spare first aid kit at the office,” Gus said. “And some vampire books, I'll get them.”

“Sure, good idea,” Shawn said, knowing that Gus was still far too freaked out by the sight of Lassie with a mouthful of razor-sharp fangs to be left with him without both of the hunters and the other cop. “I'll stay.”

“By yourself?”

“Sure, Lassie needs a distraction,” he said. “I'll tell him about the time I got bit by a dinosaur.”

“There's more dead man's blood in the car,” Dean said. “If you're going to be here alone, you're going to need to give him a shot if he gets restless.”

Shawn hesitated. “I don't want to poison him.”

“You might have to,” Sam said. “I'll get it, and you'll have it just in case.” He nodded at his brother and then glanced at Juliet and gestured to the door. “We need to get going if we're going to try tracking that one, or finding the nest. We don't have that much time.”

Gus suddenly threw his arms around Shawn. “Don't be stupid and get bit, because I was kidding about being able to stake you.”

“Or to tell my dad?” Shawn snorted. “And besides, Dean said the bite doesn't turn you.”

“I mean it Shawn, when I hit you in the face with that baseball in the seventh grade and you started crying, I couldn't stop either!”

“Hey, I wasn't crying!” Shawn insisted. “You hit me in the eye!”

“Did your dad tell you to keep your eye on the ball?” Dean asked, grinning. Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the exit.

Shawn opened his mouth to ask him if his dad had avoided that particular idiom for a specific reason, and then decided that would be too mean. He gave Gus a pat on the back, and his friend quickly followed Juliet outside. It was almost completely silent, and after a moment Shawn sat down on the floor near Lassiter, but well out of range. “So,” he said. “My dinosaur bite. It was totally sweet, and left bruises for like, a year. It didn't bleed on me, though, so unfortunately my childhood dream of growing up to be a T-Rex wasn't realized. Not yet, anyway.” He clicked his tongue.

Lassiter was trying to breathe very slowly and evenly. “You're an idiot,” he managed to say.

“I've been told,” Shawn said softly, looking down at his hands. “Lassie... I'm _really_ sorry. I know I've fucked up before, but this...” He stopped, having to blink repeatedly.

“No one expected this,” Lassiter said. “It's not your fault.”

“It's partly my fault,” Shawn told his hands, because it was too hard to look at Lassie's drawn face, his arms spread out and chained to the pipes along the wall. “Jules is going to kick its ass, you know. And—you know, no matter what. We won't let them kill you.”

Lassiter nodded, not replying because he was starting to think that the hunters probably knew what they were talking about. This was beyond any of them, and the pain of this hunger was beyond anything he ever could have imagined. The smell of Spencer's blood, especially since he was close again, _would_ drive him into a frenzy—there was something inside him that wanted it, that _needed_ it, and it was strong, getting stronger.

Sam came back with another small bottle, and a syringe. “Here, Shawn,” he said, and dropped down to one knee to hand them both over. “Dean and Detective O'Hara are waiting, so you'll have to fill this. Do it now, because you won't have time if you need it, and don't worry about air bubbles. The whole chamber. It should knock him out, at least make him feel too sick and weak to do much, if you have to use it. Detective Lassiter, do you think you can tell Shawn if you need it? To keep him safe?”

“Yes,” Lassiter said, tensing up at the smell of the dead blood. He absolutely did not want to be in contact with it, but was almost certain he was going to have to be.

“Okay,” Sam said, and then he hesitated. “Detective O'Hara says you have the keys for your car. She wants the spare radio from the glove box, just in case.”

“In my right pants pocket.”

“Can I get them?”

Lassiter glared at Sam, and Shawn's eyes widened when he saw how much more frightening it was. “Do you want to gag me?” he asked.

“No,” Sam said evenly. “I want to trust you.”

Lassiter let his head drop back until he felt the cinderblock wall. “I won't hurt you. Make it fast.”

“If something happens, get Dean,” Sam said to Shawn, and then stayed as low as he could, darting his long arm forward. He kept his eyes on Lassiter's face while he fished the keys from his pocket, and then he retreated back to Shawn, who was carefully inserting the tip of the needle into the bottle. “Thanks, Detective,” he said, and squeezed Shawn's shoulder. “Don't hesitate, man, it's for both of your sakes. We'll do what we can.”

“Okay,” Shawn said softly, concentrating on filling the syringe. “Hurry.” He finished and set it on the ground as Sam left, and then he sighed heavily. “Did I ever tell you about the time I lived in an old couple's mansion for a month because they forgot they had an east wing?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sam slid into the front seat of the car and Dean immediately punched it. “Juliet has a line on them,” he said, and Sam glanced to the back seat, where she was speaking into her cell phone. “She just called in about disturbances in the same areas after each of the five previous abductions, and scored a hit.”

“Wow, good work, Detective,” Sam said. She nodded at him but didn't smile. “I think Shawn will be okay,” Sam said to Dean. “As long as we don't take too long. Her partner's got some steel in his spine, but it's only going to be so long before the blood hunger drives him insane.” Dean didn't reply, and when Sam glanced at him, he sighed. “Dude, I said I was sorry,” he said quietly. “There's nothing else, I promise. I just didn't think you were ready to talk about it.”

Dean continued to glare at the road, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth hurt, and he hit the gas harder.

“And you know—it's fine. I don't care. You're my big brother, and who you date won't ever change that.”

“That ain't what I'm mad about, Sammy,” he said. “ _You_ had part of Dad's journal and you never told me. You should have said something the second you found it.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam said again. “I didn't think it mattered, because we haven't hunted vampires in a while, and I knew you'd freak about Dad thinking you're gay.”

“I'm not gay!” Dean shouted. “I like chicks, okay? I _love_ chicks!”

“So you're bisexual?” Sam asked. “Which is also okay.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “But just so you know: it really doesn't matter to me. When you're ready, if you want to talk about it, I'm here. And if you want to date guys—”

“I don't!”

O'Hara put her phone back into her pocket. “What are you two arguing about now? I had to tell another officer that I had my TV on and couldn't find the remote.”

“My brother is a lying, sneaking, nosy little shit,” Dean said into the rearview mirror. “And I am not gay.” 

She rolled her eyes and then grabbed the back of his seat and leaned forward. “ _I don't care_ ,” she almost shouted in his ear. “Can you two please save your dramatics for some time when my partner and my friend don't have their lives hanging on you? If your internalized homophobia ends up screwing up everything because you can't stop pouting, I will personally drive a riding lawnmower up your ass.”

Silence. Sam had to fight not to laugh as he gazed out of the window, and Juliet reseated herself in the back, giving Dean another threatening look in the mirror.

“That was so hot,” Dean muttered, and Sam lost his fight.

.

They were too late.

Juliet looked dispassionately at the body on the ground, and the head about two feet from it. She recognized it absolutely as the vampire that had attacked Lassiter, and one look at Sam told her she didn't have to ask if the possible cure would still work with the vampire dead.

“I'm so sorry,” Sam said quietly. He stood next to her while Dean talked to the other hunters who had dispatched that particular nightmare, and it occurred to him that they probably looked as if they were mourning the vampire. Unfortunately, they were mourning the one that was still alive. 

“Peachy,” Dean had said when they'd come up on the hunters standing over the monster they'd just beheaded. Under his breath, he added, “You know what we have to do now, Sam. They can't handle him, and it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.” Sam had looked at him, and then nodded toward Juliet, who looked as if her cop instincts were inches from breaking through. Dean hailed the other hunters and went to ask them about what went down while Sam stayed with her.

He wanted to comfort her, to say anything that would help, but he knew there was nothing. They needed to get back and do what needed doing so that she and the psychic could start grieving and move on. The SBPD Head Detective was going to get his picture on a wall somewhere, and he deserved it—he'd served and protected, and his partner, if no one else on the force, would know that he'd died in the most honorable way a cop could.

Dean walked back to them and waved his hand to the car. “Let's jet,” he said. “Tell you on the way back.”

“Juliet?” Sam said gently, holding his hand near the small of her back. “Let's go make sure Shawn is okay.”

She nodded, and got into the back of the car without a word. “They've been here a week,” Dean said to Sam, once they were back on the road. “They cleaned up the rest of the nest last night, that's probably why that asshole wanted to turn someone else.” He glanced over at him darkly. “Guess what they found in their little wabbit hole? Spell books. You were right about the Devil's Trap. At least they've all gone to bloodsucker hell now.”

Sam winced, and gave his brother an incredulous look, tilting his head toward the back seat. Dean realized what he'd said and grimaced, returning his attention to the road.

“What do we do now?” Juliet asked softly.

“Well...” Sam said slowly. “We're going back to the warehouse.”

“And then you'll explain to us about vampires, so that we can help my partner adjust?”

Dean shook his head slightly to avoid rolling his eyes. “I'm sorry, really,” he said. “This isn't really an adjustable sort of situation.”

“Why not?” she asked clearly. “You said the sunlight wouldn't kill him, that most of the myths weren't true. And you said something earlier about animal blood. Just tell us the rest, and we'll do what we need to.”

“That's admirable,” Sam said, meaning it. “But... the thing is, your partner is fresh-made. A newborn vampire is incredibly dangerous, especially when he doesn't have a nest of older vampires around to stay with, because he won't be able to control himself during feeding. What Dean said earlier, about chewing a hole in someone's neck? That happens. People die. Some vampires, old ones, know how to stay under the radar, either by not killing the humans they feed from, or by robbing blood banks or draining animals.”

“There's no way a brand new vamp would be able to get by on stored blood or animals,” Dean added. “The smell of fresh blood would drive him up the wall, and he just wouldn't be able to stop himself. You don't want more people in your town to get hurt, right? Especially not by a cop who was supposed to be protecting them?”

Juliet was quiet for a long moment, sitting up straight and completely still. Dean glanced into the mirror again, trying to gauge her reaction, but he saw nothing, and exchanged a nervous look with Sam.

“Shawn,” she said finally. “He'll give him his blood. He said he would.”

“What, every few days for the rest of ever?” Dean asked.

“Yes, if he needs to. I know him—even if he didn't feel like all of this is his fault, he's fascinated with the concept of actual vampires, he's headstrong, and he's often reckless with his own safety. He's an adult and can make the choice to give away his blood,” she said firmly.

“Also admirable,” Sam said. “But that—that puts him in danger. Your partner hasn't ever fed before, and he's going to be extremely hungry by now. There's a very good chance he'll kill Shawn without meaning to.”

“And then we _will_ kill your partner,” Dean said. “Two deaths instead of one.”

“Neither of you has used his name since you asked him if it was okay to cuff him to the wall,” Juliet said. “You're distancing yourself from him as a person because you've been preparing to murder him this entire time. Listen to me: I will not allow that to happen. You can either help us, by telling us everything you know, and maybe standing by while he—while he feeds for the first time, so he knows when to stop, or you can drop me off and go, and I won't call for backup to arrest you.”

There was more silence for a long moment. “I used his name,” Sam said softly. “When I took the rest of the dead man's blood in for Shawn. I asked Detective Lassiter if he felt like he could let Shawn know if he needed another hit, and he said he could.”

“Thank you,” Juliet said quietly. “My point stands.”

“I guess it does,” Dean said, and slid his eyes over to Sam's. Sam took in a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. This wasn't going to be pretty.

.

Juliet wanted badly to call Shawn, to make sure he and Lassiter were both still okay (still in the land of the living? bite your tongue, she told herself), but she didn't dare. She was aware that the near total silence in the car on the way back meant that the two brothers in the front seat were thinking fast, trying to come up with some way of carrying through their original plan, and she watched them both carefully, particularly Dean, who was not only less compassionate when it came to—to nonhumans, than Sam was, but who was also going through an emotional reveal of his own. That often made already unpredictable people more dicey, and she was set to put one or two in his calf or knee if necessary to protect her partner.

They pulled over across the street from the warehouse, and Dean shut off the car. “Sammy,” he said. “Why don't you get the rest of Dad's journal for vampire lore from the trunk, then go in and check on them. If Lassiter is coherent, start explaining to him what he is now, and what he can and can't do.” He turned in his seat, where Juliet regarded him solemnly. “If you're absolutely sure Shawn's going to be willing to feed him, let's find your car and go to the nearest 7-11 to pick him up some o.j. so he doesn't pass out from blood loss.”

She raised her eyebrows. Too easy. “You're going to help us now?”

He shrugged, looking annoyed. “Do I look like I want John Deere mowing my treasure trail? You can't say we didn't warn you when something bad happens, but my pain in the ass little brother will probably weep for a month if we don't at least attempt to try it your way. You drive, and Sam will keep them both safe until we get back.”

Juliet knew that Shawn still had Lassiter's gun, and he was going to be on high alert himself if Sam came back without her; she doubted he would let Sam near them, even if he did just want to help. There was a mini-mart just a few blocks away, and she would have the more dangerous brother under her own eye the entire time. “All right,” she said. “But I'm going to warn you right now, Dean, that I am still armed, and that I do not trust you.”

“Gotcha,” he said, and got out of the car. 

Sam immediately went to the Impala's trunk, and Juliet led the way back to where Lassiter had pulled their car over a lifetime ago. She unlocked the doors and Dean slid in next to her; the second she reached to close her door, she saw movement in her peripheral vision, and she knew she'd been too late again. In less than two seconds, Dean had knocked the keys from her right hand and snapped a set of handcuffs around her wrist and the steering wheel. She punched him in the face with her left fist, feeling his nose mash against her knuckles—but it wasn't nearly as good of a hit as she could have gotten with her right, and although he grunted, he didn't withdraw.

“Let me go,” she demanded, already trying to feel for her gun.

“Good one,” he said. “But no can do.” He was too quick a second time, and he had her gun, her phone, and her cuff keys in his hands. “Sorry about this, I really am. I can tell you care a lot about your partner. You're a good cop, but you're young, and eventually you'll dig the 'cruel to be kind' philosophy. He'll want to be remembered for putting away murderers and rapists and saving your psychic's life, not for biting someone's throat open.” Juliet punched him again, and while he dodged another direct shot to the nose, she got him just underneath his eye. “Ow, damn,” he said, finally backing up toward the passenger door. “Look, I gotta go. We'll make it quick, and we'll make sure he knows how hard you fought for him. He'll understand.” He opened the door and exited, jogging quickly to where his brother was waiting for him.

“No! You bastard, stop!” she screamed. Neither of them looked back at her as they headed in. Juliet cursed and tried to reach underneath the driver's seat, but her position made it impossible to get her hand very far. She heard another car coming and whirled toward the street, hoping and unable to breathe. “Please,” she whispered.

Yes—it was Gus. She gave two short blasts with the horn as he parked, and when he looked around suspiciously, she tooted again and opened her door. “Gus!” she screamed. “Gus, help me!”

He dropped something he'd been holding and bolted, yanking her door open the rest of the way and dropping to his knees. “Juliet, what—”

“Dean,” she said, and jerked her arm. “He and Sam just went in to kill Lassiter. The other vampire was dead when we found him. There might be—if you can feel around under the seat here—”

Gus's mouth dropped open, and he glanced over his shoulder before shoving his hand in his pocket, coming out with two paperclips that the straightened in a matter of seconds. “Don't you dare tell Shawn I know how to do this,” he said, and inserted both into the lock of the cuff around her wrist. 

She watched, speechless, as the cuff clicked and fell away from her. “I—thank—do you always carry spare paperclips?” she sputtered.

He gave her a look. “Who is my best friend?” he asked.

She had to laugh, and then she almost bashed her face on the steering wheel when she tried to plunge her arm underneath the seat again, Lassiter's usual seat. “For your life, partner,” she whispered. 

Her fingers found it, and she cried out in relief. She straightened up with one of his many spare pistols, and looked at Gus calmly, but there was something in her face that froze him.

“Do you have my back, Gus?” she asked softly. “You know Shawn's not going to let them hurt Lassiter, and I think they'll kill him too if they feel like they have to. I'm prepared to do whatever is necessary to protect both of ours.”

He looked panicked, and then for a second as if he was about to cry; then he stood up and held out his hand. “Let's go.”

.

Shawn sat cross-legged on the floor, his elbow on his thigh and his chin cupped in his hand. He'd had to give Lassie the shot of the gross dead blood after all—he hadn't wanted to, not even when Lassie first told him he'd better, but then he had roughly ten million long, sharp teeth, and his arms were shaking against the cuffs, and he'd smacked the back of his head against the wall, trying to throw himself back instead of forward. Shawn had crept forward, his own hands shaking, and he jabbed the needle into Lassie's thigh and slammed the plunger down. He jerked his arm back just as Lassiter's teeth snapped at him, and he fell back on his hands, unable to breathe for several seconds, until the dead blood took its effect and Lassie stopped, looked as if he was going to puke, and then he passed out. He was still slumped against the wall, his hands limp in the cuffs, when Sam and Dean came back. 

Shawn jumped to his feet. “Did you get it?” he demanded, and then his eyes darted past them, and he frowned. “Where's Jules?”

“Look, kid,” Dean began, and then he stopped when Shawn's face became hard and cold. He raised the gun, again aiming at Sam.

“No,” he said steadily. “What happened?”

“We couldn't get it,” Sam said, raising his hands in a placatory way. “And Juliet's okay, she's in her car. Listen: we found the vampire that turned Lassiter, but other hunters beat us to him, and he was dead. Even if the reversal would have worked before, there's no way it would have from more dead blood. There's nothing more we can even try.”

“So... you're not going to help him.”

“There's nothing we can do to help,” Sam said. “I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” Shawn said after a moment. “Then you two aren't needed anymore—we'll take care of this on our own. Let Juliet go from whatever you did to her, and then make like a fetus and head out.”

Dean huffed out an aggravated sigh, but Sam kept his ground. “Shawn,” he said gently. “You can't let him bite you. I understand that you feel bad because he was protecting you, and he's your friend. But he can't control himself. He'll kill you.”

“Try coming over here and I'll kill you,” he said.

“Sammy,” Dean said.

Sam recognized his _screwed-the-pooch_ tone and looked at him, becoming very still when he saw the furious, determined blue eyes glaring around his brother's shoulder. Juliet stood behind him, and from the way Dean was standing, Sam was sure she'd gotten another gun from somewhere and had it centered on his back. Guster was back as well, though he appeared to be weaponless—he had a small white plastic box in one hand, and his other was empty.

“Hi Jules,” Shawn said. “Looks like you're as sick as I am of these two and their creepy hankering for murder.”

“They're not going to murder anyone,” Juliet said. “Sam. Dean. You two have five minutes to get in your car and drive away, or I'm calling for backup, including a secured perimeter, and you're going to prison.”

“That's going to be a laugh riot when they charge in here and see what your partner turned into,” Dean said. “Had to give him more dead man's blood, didn't you? That's going to wear off, and everyone will see he's a monster. Lots of people will die, including him, either in trying to get him to stop attacking humans, or after they capture him and try to do tests on him to figure out what he is. He'll suffer, you want that? They won't just give him blood, either.”

Juliet looked at Shawn and raised her eyebrows, and he nodded. “I will.”

“Please, Shawn,” Sam said. “Listen to me. Not only does he not know what he's doing, he's probably going to be insane with hunger when he wakes up again. He will _kill_ you.”

“You're going to have to kill me to get to him, so this is doubly pointless. And how, exactly, is he going to kill me?”

“What do you mean, how?” Dean demanded. “Uh, he's a freaking vampire?”

“I mean, what, you think he's going to take too much?”

“I think he's going to take a big motherfucking chomp out of your throat!”

“He won't be able to control the right place to bite, or how deep, or possibly how to heal the wound once he's finished,” Sam said. “Dean's right. He's just going to bite.”

Shawn shrugged. “You could help, but you won't. I'm cool with it—this entire situation is on me, and it's up to me to make it right, and that doesn't include standing by and watching you decapitate someone that saved my life.”

“We _can't_ help, I told you we couldn't get the—”

“Your biggest worry is Lassie biting me wrong,” Shawn said, and nodded to the machete in Sam's belt. “Cut me—if I'm already bleeding, he won't need to bite me. Jules and everyone else gets back, I unlock the cuffs, and he should come for just me. Right?” He raised his eyebrows at Sam, who was momentarily speechless. “Then he's calmed down, and we can figure out what to do next.”

“That's the stupidest thing I've heard all night,” Dean said.

“Really? Earlier I heard you bash Cyndi Lauper, you freaking heathen.”

“Why won't that work?” Juliet asked Sam.

Sam looked at Dean helplessly, and then he flipped his hands up. “I think it will. Once he feeds we can talk to him, see if they really can make a plan to adjust.”

“What the hell,” Dean said flatly.

“Great, that's settled,” Shawn said at the same time, engaging the gun's safety again. 

“We can't stop him from making his own choice,” Sam said. “We informed him of the risks—”

“Repeatedly,” Shawn said, rolling his eyes.

“—and he wants to do it anyway. I still don't think it's right to kill Lassiter if he hasn't hurt anyone.” Sam glanced at Shawn, and then back to Juliet. “How about this—we try it your way, but if it goes wrong, no more arguments: we take care of it.”

“What are you defining as 'going wrong'?” Gus asked. “If he kills Shawn?”

“Yes.”

Gus gave Sam a frantic look, and then his shoulders slumped when he saw that Shawn was adamant. “Jules,” he said quietly. “If Lassie kills him, they'll be right, and he'll kill others.”

Very slowly, Juliet nodded. “I agree. Shawn... are you sure? You can be badly hurt or killed.”

“I should already be dead,” he said, and stepped forward, his palm held out. “Cuff keys.”

“What if the cut doesn't heal and you bleed to death?” Dean asked.

Shawn nodded to what his best friend was holding. “Gus has a first aid kit. I'll bet you a shiny new dime that it's stuffed with gauze. And I didn't say sever my jugular, sheesh.”

“Fine,” Dean snapped, flinging a set of handcuff keys toward him. “It's your funeral. Juliet, get that gun out of my back, if you don't mind? If Detective Dracula ends up coming for us anyway, I want my hands free and my torso hole-free.”

She backed away slowly, but kept her gun out. “Gus, give Shawn the kit to have nearby. Sam, are you going to—?”

“Yeah, okay. I'll help.”

Shawn got the first-aid kit and another deathgrip of a hug from Gus; Juliet tried to hug him too, but both of his return hugs were perfunctory, and she let him go as if she would never see him again, but respected him for it. “Try to tell him he has your consent,” she told him. “If you can get that through to him, maybe he won't be so frantic to—to feed.” Shawn nodded, and walked back over to Lassiter with Sam.

“How long ago did you have to hit him with the dead man's blood?” Sam asked.

“About fifteen or twenty minutes.” Shawn looked worried now, and he glanced at Sam quickly. “Those fang-teeth are freaky.”

“Uh huh, that's why you don't want them in your neck.” Sam looked closely at the new vampire, bending down a little. “Detective Lassiter?” he called softly.

“Lassie?” Shawn chimed in, dropping to his knees in front of him and letting Gus's first-aid kit hit the ground. He started to reach for his shoulder, but Sam grabbed his arm just as Lassiter cringed against the wall. “It's okay, Lassie, chill,” Shawn said quickly. “They couldn't get the cure, but I'm going to let you have some of my blood, okay? I consent—just give us a minute and everything's going to be okay.”

Lassiter didn't respond, but he was fully alert now, trembling with the effort of keeping himself still, to not lunge at the two humans directly in front of him. He kept his eyes closed, too, because he could feel the effects of the dead blood draining away, and the hunger had him. Nothing was okay.

“Got the keys ready?” Sam asked, raising his machete slightly.

Shawn nodded, his eyes huge and his breath coming faster. “Do it fast and get back.”

Sam took another second to recall everything he knew about anatomy to try to gauge the best place for the cut, trying to guess how long and how deep it should be. He moved, one quick motion with a jerk of his wrist and then he was backing away, his machete still at the ready.

“Ow!” Shawn screamed, his hand clapping over the cut on his neck that was pouring blood. “Fuck!”

“Handcuffs!” Sam shouted, going up on the balls of his feet when he saw the vampire's head snap forward, all of his fangs shining in the scant light. “Hurry if you're going to do it!”

Shawn dragged his hand away from his neck and looked at it, feeling sick at how much blood there was already. He looked up at Lassie and his stomach clenched, his breath freezing in his chest. “Consent,” he said again timidly. “I'm gonna unlock you now, okay? Try not to hurt me too much, I won't struggle if I can help it.” He reached forward and the keys slipped in the blood on his hand, and he almost dropped them. He managed to get one jammed into the lock and he twisted; the very instant the cuff popped open, Lassiter had snatched the keys from his hand and stuck them into the other cuff, and Shawn couldn't stop himself, he was too scared—he fell backwards and his feet scrabbled, trying to push himself away.

Lassiter lunged, but he went for the first-aid kit, not for Spencer. There was so much blood on him, and he almost couldn't think with how much he wanted it, how much he needed to have it, to _bite_ him, but Shawn—he was so frightened. The dead blood had put Lassiter into a near-unconscious state, but he had heard everything: all of their debate, their heartbeats, Spencer's conviction. He tore the latch off the kit in order to get it open, and a dozen thick gauze pads tumbled out. He snatched one and reached for Spencer, who was looking at him confusedly.

“No,” Lassiter croaked, his hands shaking as he pressed the gauze to Spencer's neck, smelling the blood as it was soaked up. It was so close, and there would be no going back, not ever. “I can't. I _can't_ ,” he said, pleading as much with himself as with Spencer. Shawn seemed to understand, and then he did a shocking thing: he reached forward with the hand he'd clapped over the cut, and smeared his blood on Lassiter's mouth. It was over.

The others watched as Shawn was slammed onto the floor on his back, and then he gasped when Lassiter's mouth found the cut Sam had made. Sam and Dean both tensed, their machetes ready. 

“Ow, ow,” Shawn whimpered softly. “Lassie—teeth—ow.”

“Don't bite him, Detective,” Sam called. “You shouldn't have to. He's not fighting it, he's giving it to you. Try to slow down.”

Shawn visibly relaxed then, seeming to go boneless when Lassiter used his hands to hold him still instead of his teeth. Sam relaxed as well, but kept watching, as did Dean. Gus looked ill and had to turn away, but Juliet also continued to watch, a line on her forehead. “Shawn?” she called after a minute. “Are you okay?”

He turned one of his arms up so that he could raise a confirming thumb, and then they all heard him moan very softly, but not with pain. They glanced away for several moments, awkward.

The whole thing took no longer than five minutes, and then Lassiter was able to release Shawn and push himself back on his knees, looking slightly dazed as he wiped at his mouth. Shawn looked up at him, feeling weak and sleepy—but then he grinned, very slowly.

“Lassie... that was so hot,” he whispered.

Lassiter just looked at him, but he didn't reply. When he looked up at the others, he was calm again, his face set and his gaze hard at the two hunters. “Put those away,” he commanded.

“Are you in control of yourself?” Dean asked. “'Cause I'm gonna warn you—you might think you're all big and bad and super fast and strong and whatever now, but there's two of us, and we have lots of experience fighting things like you. And we win.”

“Noted,” Lassiter said acidly.

“You heard my partner,” Juliet said. “Put your weapons down.”

Sam obeyed, setting his machete on the ground near his foot while Dean slipped his back onto his belt. Sam frowned slightly at Shawn, whose eyes were only half open now. “Is he still bleeding?”

“He's fine,” Lassiter said. “He's falling asleep.”

“Is it okay if I come over to him?” Gus asked. “I got—there was a Sunny D in the car, he should probably drink it.”

“Of course,” Lassiter said, and got to his feet. He focused on Juliet and slowly came toward her as Gus scurried past him and knelt down next to Shawn, rotating his head to check the side of his neck. Lassiter regarded Juliet for a long moment, and her eyes searched his face. He held out his hand for her to shake. “Thank you, partner,” he said quietly, and she ignored his hand and wrapped both arms around him. 

“Now I'm really sad I don't have my trusty Kodak,” Dean said. “If you two are done, we need to talk.”


	4. Chapter 4

Gus and Shawn sat against a wall while Gus harried him into drinking the rest of the Orange-Mango Sunny Delight. It was warm, which made Shawn complain, but when Gus gave him the option of downing it or getting it poured over his head, he gulped. 

“The Mummy,” Gus said contemplatively.

“Probably not... maybe if it was, like, a corpse reanimated.”

“That's not better, Shawn.” Gus shuddered. “Werewolves?”

“I'd say... yeah, they gotta be.” Shawn's eyes widened. “Remember that couple that was mauled and partially eaten by 'mountain lions' a few years ago? Weren't their hearts gone?”

Gus shook his head. “This is messed up.”

“But kind of awesome,” Shawn said, the corners of his mouth turning up. Gus gave him a scrutinizing look, Shawn shrugged at him, and then Gus rolled his eyes and nudged the orange drink bottle back at him. 

Several feet away, Sam, Dean, Juliet, and Lassiter were standing in a small circle while the two hunters explained everything they'd ever seen or heard about true vampire lore. “Like a bad sunburn,” Dean said, “but it won't kill you. If you got extra dark shades and you suit up even in the summertime, you might be okay.”

“I'm a detective,” Lassiter said. “I dress properly for my job.”

Sam was looking at Juliet, who had her notepad out and was writing. “What about any other poisons—is there anything else that could be toxic or fatal?” she asked, and looked up.

“Just the blood of a dead man and an 'off with his head',” Dean said. 

“As far as we know,” Sam added. “It's very possible that we don't know everything. We've been hunting almost all of our lives, but until last year we thought vampires were myth. Our dad never told us about them because he thought they were extinct, so all we have to go on is what he was told by other hunters, and the few times we've seen them.”

“What was it you said earlier about animal blood?” Juliet asked. She glanced at Lassiter when he made an involuntary sound of disgust. “Or stored blood?” she suggested.

“We met a girl last year whose nest got by drinking cow blood,” Dean said. “They didn't like it, said it was majorly gross in fact, but _they_ didn't hurt people.”

“I'm not going to hurt people,” Lassiter said firmly. “That's not who I am, and I'm the same person I was. If there are other ways to get by, I'll find them.”

“That's great,” Sam said sincerely. “You know, it doesn't matter what you are, it matters what you do. Just remember that, because it might be kind of hard in the beginning, here, while you're still figuring things out, to control your new instincts when it comes to feeding—how much, and when.”

“You don't know something of a guideline?” Juliet asked. “Every day, every few days, every week?”

“I _think_ older vamps need fresh blood every few days, maybe once a week,” Sam said, frowning. “But the only fresh-made vamps we've come across, we had to, um, dispatch.”

“Because they were attacking people,” Dean said.

“I said I won't,” Lassiter snapped.

Sam put his hands up. “Easy, we're just saying. You're also going to have to control your temper, because that second set of teeth is going to want to pop out if you want to fight, not just when you want to feed.”

“That's going to go over real well in Interrogation Room B,” Dean said. “Make Mikey Methhead 'fess up _real_ quick.”

“Are you on duty the next few days?” Sam asked, looking between the detectives.

“Tomorrow is our day off, but we'll actually be on duty for a week of nights after that,” Juliet said.

Dean snorted. “Isn't that convenient.”

Sam ignored him, made eye contact with Lassiter, and nodded to Juliet. “You're going to want to keep her around as much as you can, since she knows what's going on. I think the reason new vampires fly off the handle and attack when they get hungry is because it comes on really fast and _really_ intense, and they just go crazy and can't stop themselves. You know it's going to happen again soon, but you don't know when.” He glanced at Dean. “We can try to break into a blood bank, if that'll help.”

Lassiter shook his head, his arms folded. “I can't condone that.”

“Stored blood probably won't be good enough at first, either,” Dean said. “New vamps rarely hit the local red cross, they go for people, for fresh, warm blood.”

“Shawn said he would help you,” Juliet told Lassiter quietly. “And not just this last time.”

“I heard him,” he said, and looked over toward Shawn and Gus again, frowning slightly. Shawn and Gus had their heads together and were murmuring solemnly.

Dean frowned. “How? That was before he got close to you again, and you were zonked out.”

“Oh look, something you apparently didn't know.” Lassiter rolled his eyes. “I was largely immobile, and very nauseated, but I could still hear everything.”

“We didn't know that,” Sam confirmed. “That might be good to know in the future.” They were all quiet for another long moment, awkward again. “Well, even if Shawn's on board to feed you whenever he can, that might not work for every time you get hungry,” Sam said at last. “I don't know how much blood you're going to need, but humans need to wait several weeks between, you know, donations. It might work to have less more often, but it might not, and he kind of strikes me as the sort who's going to not care if he actually doesn't feel up to it, if he thinks he has to.”

“That's Shawn,” Juliet agreed. “If something doesn't matter to him, he's lazy and perfectly content to let everyone else handle the work. But this does matter.”

“Are you guys talking about me?” Shawn called. “I hope it's about my birthday party.”

“Your birthday was four months ago,” Gus reminded him.

“And did anyone surprise me?”

“I gave you a fifty dollar gift card for Subway!”

“Not a surprise,” Shawn insisted. “You had Subway wrappers in your trash for a week—that was when they were having that gift card special where you got a free meal for every twenty-five in cards you bought. And since when do I want to eat fresh? You know me, Gus, I want to eat old, nasty, greasy cheesy goodness.”

Juliet began walking over to them, and everyone else followed. “Hey,” she said, crouching down. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” he said. “And a little hungry, actually. What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” Sam said, checking his phone. “You should probably eat.” He snorted. “But not something old, or greasy.”

“Don't tell me how to live my life,” Shawn said loftily. “I do feel like I want to sleep for a week, though.”

“That would be the blood loss,” Gus said. “If this is going to become a regular thing, you're going to need some iron pills, maybe some B12, so you don't get anemic.” He brightened. “I'll do some research and see what else will help.”

“Gus, do you have access to syringes and tubing, and sterile storage containers?” Juliet asked.

“I'm sure I could, why?”

“Because it doesn't sound likely that Shawn is going to be able to safely give up enough blood for Detective Lassiter,” she said. “I can help—I'll save up a little every day for supplemental purposes. Hopefully there really won't be any need to take from a blood bank's supply, and we can work together to adjust to this.”

“Yeah, you got this wrapped up in a neat little package,” Dean said. “You know we'll be watching to hear anything about you, Officer Fang.”

Lassiter gave him a look that almost made him take a step back, and Shawn snorted, recognizing it as the same look he'd terrorized the general masses with for years. “And I'll be watching for you, you goddamn psycho,” he almost growled.

“Who's the bloodsucker in the room, Jack?” Dean demanded. 

“That knife you're carrying reeks of blood,” Lassiter shot back. “And guess what else? I've got _your_ scent now.”

“You're clearly a good cop, and your job is protecting people from possible dangers,” Sam said. “That's basically our job too. If your friends are going to take care of you, and you can control yourself, there's no reason we'd ever have to come back.”

“Good,” Lassiter said, and then he rubbed a hand across his face. “This is unbelievable. I just got used to the new regulations on weapons discharge paperwork, and now this.”

“Don't worry Lass,” Shawn said. “We'll fix you up nice, find you a great cape at Fangs 'N Thangs. You just got eight hundred percent cooler.”

Sam looked at his brother. “I think they're good here,” he said. “The other hunters got the nest, and we didn't find any evidence of demons already here. Anything else you can think of, before we go?”

“Demons?” Gus gasped. He smacked Shawn's shoulder. “I told you the salt lines were for a reason, Shawn!”

“I thought you were making a protective circle for us to keep my dad out,” Shawn said, shrugging. He glanced up at Sam and Dean. “How do you tell if someone's possessed?”

“You think your dad—” Sam began, his eyebrows raised.

Shawn waved at him. “Nah, he's been like that since I was a kid. Although he did recently go on a low-sodium diet—he made me dinner last week and he marinated the steak with _fruit_ , ugh. I was just curious.”

“Look it up,” Dean said shortly. “There's lots of lore out there if you want to know, we don't have time to teach you how to keep your dumb ass safe.”

Sam had his phone out and was scrolling his contacts. “I'm going to call Bobby,” he said. “Just in case he can think of anything crucial they should know before we go, since this is so entirely new to everyone.” He glanced up, his eyes lingering on Juliet's face. “I wish we could stay and tell you more, I really do,” he said. “But there's—my brother's right, there's so much else out there and we kind of have full plates with our own stuff.”

She nodded. “We understand. I'm sure Gus and I will be able to find out a lot on our own.”

“Hey Bobby,” Sam said when he answered. “We've kind of got a situation here, uh... no, we're fine, everyone's okay. We did actually catch up with some other hunters—they took out most of the nest last night, but, see, they missed one...” He quickly explained everything that had happened, with lots of wincing while Bobby cursed in his ear. “I know,” he said. “Look, I'm going to put you on speaker.” He pressed a button and held the phone out. “Detectives, this is our friend Bobby—he's a hunter that our dad knew, and our number one go-to-guy about all things supernatural. He, um, has a few questions.”

“Calling all mental rejects,” a coarse voice said angrily. “Dean, is your brother winding me up for some reason? You let this go down? And there's cops involved, one of them now a vamp?”

“Hey, I tried,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “I got voted off the island.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Juliet said. “We have a plan, and we're all going to be working together to make sure my partner is taken care of and safe.”

“It ain't him I'm worried about!” Bobby shouted. “I'm sorry lady, but you have no idea what you're dancing with.”

“You want to watch how you talk to her,” Lassiter said. “I'm responsible for myself and for these people. This is none of your business, and if you're higher in rank as some sort of _hunter_ than these two, I suggest you call them back to base and let us handle ourselves. We do not have to answer to you,” he added, giving Sam an annoyed look for putting them on the spot with a lecture.

“We don't really have ranks,” Sam said. “Bobby's just—more experienced.”

“I don't give a damn,” Lassiter said. “I've been Head Detective for eleven years, and _this_ mess isn't going to get out and put an end to that. I'll do my job, you two need to shove off and do yours—go take down the Easter Bunny or something.”

Shawn snickered, and then sat up excitedly. “Ohmygod, Halloween!” he said. “Lassie, seriously—what are you going as this year?”

“A psychic,” Lassiter said.

“What you are, _head detective_ , is a stuck-up, self-important gas bag,” Bobby said. “You're going to kill someone.”

Lassiter pointed at the phone, glaring at Sam now. “This is the 'agent' you had me call earlier, isn't it?” he asked. “How did you get the FBI passcodes?”

“I know a psychic,” Bobby said. 

Lassiter folded his arms again. “So do we.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows, and then he grinned and touched his forehead. “I'm sensing something,” he said. “I'm smelling bacon. Pigs! No, bad spirits—Lassie and Jules are our friends.”

“Really?” Lassiter demanded, rolling his eyes.

“Pigs and chickens,” Shawn went on. “Ooooh, they smell delicious.”

“Bacon and eggs?” Gus suggested. “Breakfast?”

“Yes!” Shawn said, and bumped fists with him. “Breakfast at midnight. My psychic senses are sticky, and covered in syrup.”

“Your psychic senses are bullshit,” Bobby said.

“Hey!” Shawn protested. “Your name is _Bobby_ , what are you, twelve?”

Sam looked at Dean, who was smirking hugely at what they both knew was coming. “What did you say to me, you little pissant?” the phone roared. “I don't give a shit if you're claiming to be psychic because you're lazy or because you just like conning people, but one day it's going to bite you in the ass and everyone around you's just going to laugh.”

Shawn looked at Gus, grinning. “I like Bobby, he reminds me of my dad.”

“You have issues,” Dean said.

“Yeah, I'm the only one,” Shawn scoffed. He glanced at Dean, and then addressed the phone. “Hey Bobby, did you know that Dean likes boooooys?”

“Shawn!” Juliet scolded.

“You shut the fuck up!” Dean said at the same time.

“He was mean!” Shawn said indignantly.

“Is that supposed to be news?” Bobby asked.

Dean froze, and looked at the phone in Sam's hand uncertainly before looking at his brother, who shrugged. “Bobby?” Dean said after a minute. “What—”

“Please, kid,” Bobby said. “Your daddy came bellyaching and whining about that to me when you were, what, sixteen? I told him to stop being such a pantywaist and deal with it. You are who you are, and you're family. You be with who you want—it doesn't mean shit, and it's high time you got over yourself.”

Silence. Juliet still gave Shawn a disapproving look and Lassiter had his head cocked toward the door, listening to the world outside; Shawn and Gus looked surprised, but that was nothing to the look of shock on Dean's face. Sam watched him carefully, compassionately. 

“Oh my god,” Shawn said after a moment. “Can Bobby seriously be my dad?” He looked at Sam and Dean. “My dad would _never_ say something like that.”

“Neither would ours,” Dean said quietly.

“No,” Sam agreed. “Uh, Bobby, thanks for saying that, I think Dean's needed to hear it for awhile. But to get back to the subject, um, I think these guys here probably can take care of this themselves and watch out for each other, as long as Dean and I didn't forget anything major, and they're going to be reading up on some lore as well. They're good cops, I think they'll be okay.”

“Goody for the cops that you can think,” Bobby said. “I'm out. You boys call me _before_ you decide to facilitate any more human upgrades.”

Sam sighed and flipped his phone closed. “I hope you can understand why we'll be checking in occasionally. It's not to be nosy, it's to keep people safe.”

“We understand,” Juliet said. 

“Isn't it a good thing to have more people in the know?” Gus asked timidly. “Just in case there are more bad vampires, or werewolves, or the creature under the bed?” His eyes widened. “Is there a creature under my bed?” he demanded.

“I dunno, did you check?” Dean asked.

“It might be good,” Sam said carefully. He glanced at Juliet again. “Let me give you my number?” he said. “If something comes up that you're not sure about, or you want more information, or you just...” He tried on a smile, ignoring his brother's jackass grin and hoping everyone else wasn't staring. 

She smiled back, though it was just a small one. “Thank you. Trust me, we understand the potential for disaster here. We won't let that happen, but we appreciate what you do.” The smile dropped from her face as she glanced at Dean, but she didn't say anything else as she took out her cell phone.

.

“That chick 'bout broke my nose,” Dean said half an hour later, tenderly touching his face as he drove east. “You gonna, what, date her now?”

“I don't know,” Sam said truthfully. “I like her. She does what needs doing to solve the problem and save her partner no matter what. Kind of like someone else I know.”

Dean grunted and rubbed at the second spot Juliet had punched. “What a fucked up job,” he muttered.

“I don't know,” Sam said again. “I mean... their lives are never going to be the same, obviously, but... hey, they're not the only ones. Lots of things could be different now.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You could just say it, Sammy.”

“So could you.”

“Fine,” Dean said. “I got a year to live, so—so fuck it. Maybe I do want to fuck dudes.”

Sam started laughing, and after a moment to consider it all, Dean started to grin as well.

.

Juliet and Lassiter took Shawn and Gus to an all-night diner for some food, a move nearly everyone regretted when Shawn began pouring maple syrup into his coffee and Lassiter started nudging Juliet and pointing out which of the diner's other patrons were carrying pot.

“Try it,” Shawn wheedled, when Gus confiscated his cup.

“But I can smell it,” Lassiter insisted. He paused, and gave a sidelong look to a dirty-looking man in a sweatshirt sitting at the counter. “And that man is wearing his mother's underwear,” he said, and Gus choked on his orange juice.

Shawn sat up from where he'd been half-lying on Gus. “How do you know they're his mother's?”

“Don't answer that!” Gus said.

“I can smell them,” Lassiter said. He looked around, ignoring Gus's gagging, a bemused look on his face. “I can smell everything. Like how much dope those teenagers currently have on them.”

“Look at your hand,” Shawn commanded. Lassiter glanced at him and then did. “Can you see stuff you couldn't before?”

“Yes.”

“Now say, 'whoa, dude, look at my hand'.” Shawn grinned. “That's what the flower power kids in the corner are saying.”

Lassiter gave him a look and Juliet patted his hand. “Let this one go, partner.”

“On the upside, think about how easy it's going to be to bust people now,” Shawn said. “You can hear heartbeats, right? You'll know when someone you're interrogating is lying or unduly nervous, you'll be able to smell drugs and spilled blood, you'll hear people whispering, and getting shot won't kill you.” He paused. “Don't get shot—that'll just look weird.”

“Speaking of shooting,” Juliet said, looking worried. “I discharged my weapon earlier tonight. We need to think of a plausible reason for that so that I can do the paperwork.”

“Ghosts,” Gus mused.

“Why would shooting a ghost hurt it?” Shawn asked. “They're already dead.”

“No, I mean—if they're really real?” He got out his phone, and there was no way Shawn could resist.

“Who ya gonna call?” he demanded.

Gus rolled his eyes. “Sam Winchester. I know he said they're busy, but it's not cool to leave us with all of this, there are just too many questions.”

Juliet put her hand over Gus's phone. “I think we all need to get some sleep, if we can,” she said. “I'll go with you to the library tomorrow and we'll see what we can find. We can also work up a list of questions and possible follow-ups to save time if we do need to call Sam.”

Gus nodded, putting his phone away again. “Good idea.” He made a face. “As long as no one has to talk to that Bobby again. He strike anyone else as your off-the-rack crotchety old white dude in flannel and a trucker hat?”

“Yes,” Lassiter said, glaring at the rest of his french toast, and then he nodded at Juliet. “Let's go. I'll help you with your weapons discharged form, since I'm quite familiar with it now.”

As soon as Gus was settled into the back seat of Lassiter's car, Shawn leaning on him and dozing again, he remembered that his own car was still back at the warehouse. “Can we be dropped off back at that warehouse, please?” he asked. “My car is still there, and it's a work vehicle, so I can't leave it until tomorrow.” Shawn's head was too heavy on his shoulder and he shifted, making Shawn sit up and sigh. “But we should probably take Shawn home first so he can get to sleep,” Gus added. 

“Of course,” Juliet said.

When Lassiter pulled up in front of Shawn's apartment, everyone looked at him in surprise when he unbuckled his seat belt. “O'Hara, take Guster to get his car, then come back here and get me,” he said.

“Sure,” she said, and scooted over into the driver's seat when he vacated it.

“I don't need a grown-up to get up the stairs,” Shawn said, and then suddenly he patted his pockets. “Crap, where are my keys? Never mind, I think the door's still unlocked.”

“You haven't slept since the night before last, and you lost some blood, and you're you,” Gus pointed out. “You'd fall headfirst down the steps and end up sleeping on the landing.”

“What does being me have to do with anything?” Shawn asked indignantly as Lassiter came around the back of the car and opened his door. Shawn looked up, a little uncertain. “Really, Lassie, I'll be fine,” he said.

“Evidently you and I have an arrangement to work out,” he said. “Get out of the car.”

“This vampire thing really isn't helping your creepy quotient,” Shawn said, not bringing up the fact that he'd declared it made him cooler just a couple of hours ago, and he obeyed.

Gus had been right, of course—halfway up to the third floor, Shawn started to feel weak and a little dizzy, and Lassiter had an arm around the small of his back almost at once. When they got into Shawn's apartment (which had indeed been left unlocked, something Lassiter rolled his eyes at but didn't comment on), Lassiter ran him a glass of water and then stood with his arms folded, watching him drink it.

“Stop, I learned my lesson,” Shawn complained after a few minutes. “No more sneaking into buildings where there might be literal monsters.”

“Stop what?”

“I don't know, looking mad.” Shawn studied his glass so that he didn't have to see Lassie's face. “I know I've done a lot of stupid things, but this time—look what happened to you. I'm really, _really_ sorry. So... I guess just text me when you're getting hungry and I'll let you know where I am, or we can decide on where to meet, or—I don't know. I guess we're gonna have to figure this thing out together.”

“Right,” Lassiter said, and then— “I'm not angry with you about what happened. I meant it when I said I don't believe that it's your fault. You and Gus could have been killed, and that was your doing. But we all know that before tonight there wouldn't have been a power on earth that could have gotten me to believe there were vampires in Santa Barbara—you could have expressly told me exactly what was going to happen and I would have done the same exact thing.” He paused, and sighed. “I'd do it again. The other one wasn't going to turn you, it was going to kill you. And we both know I'm going to adjust to this a hell of a lot better than you could.”

“Dream on,” Shawn said, the corners of his mouth turning up. Then he shrugged and leaned against his counter. “You're probably right. You're now the most badass cop in the whole city—criminals will wet themselves at the thought of you coming five miles away. And then you'll smell it.” He snorted when Lassie shook his head and rubbed at the spot on his forehead between his eyes. “And then there's me—you'd end up having to tell my dad I was decapitated, and he'd put _I Told You You'd Lose Your Head If It Wasn't Attached_ on my tombstone.”

“He probably would,” Lassiter agreed. There was a short, almost awkward pause, and then he said, very quietly, “Thank you, Spencer.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

“For...” He gestured aimlessly, and then sighed. “I guess the term is feeding me.”

“Oh.” Shawn shrugged. “You saved me.”

“You saved me too,” Lassiter said. “That dead blood didn't put me into an entirely unconscious state. I could hear everything—there were some very tense moments when the hunters were adamant that I should die, and I—” He stopped and pressed his lips together again.

“Were scared?”

“I wondered if they were right to do it.”

Shawn looked surprised, and then he shrugged again. “Too bad,” he said. “Jules and I weren't going to let that happen no matter what.”

“I know.” Lassiter looked at him again, and Shawn had to drop his eyes back down to his water glass when he saw how penetrative the glance was. “Did you know...” Lassiter began slowly, and when Shawn looked back up at him, he saw that his expression was now contemplative. “Apparently, human blood can carry emotion with it,” he said. “Or vampires are highly attuned into what humans are feeling when they're feeding.”

“Uh...” Shawn said, because that seemed to require some sort of response. “No, how would I know that?”

Lassiter shrugged. “Apparently you know everything else.” He paused again. “These new senses are interesting. I know a lot more now than I did before.”

Shawn found that his mouth was dry, and he drained the remainder of the water in his glass. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Well,” Lassiter said, tilting his head slightly to one side. “I know how much you enjoyed it. You liked it. A lot.”

“Um.” Shawn licked his lips and considered his empty glass, unable to look up. “So... you could tell that, huh?”

“Yes,” Lassiter said softly. “You were... aroused.”

There was a long moment of near absolute silence in which Shawn's mind raced to find the correct response, and Lassiter considered the smell of his anxiety—he wasn't fidgeting, or blabbering like he normally did, but his heart was beating faster and his breathing had slowed, causing a tightness in his chest. He was about to dismiss it all, because if any time was the time perhaps this wasn't it, but suddenly, Shawn laughed. 

“Hey,” he said. “I wasn't kidding when I said it was hot. Sorry.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but he spoke to the window above the sink. “Couldn't really help it. You had your arms around me and you were holding me, with your tongue and mouth on my neck. Do I taste good?” His tone was teasing, but he was still unable to meet Lassiter's eyes.

“Yes,” Lassiter said, meaning it, because it hadn't just been the taste, it had been _him_. Shawn. 

Now he did look at him, surprised but wary, and... hopeful. “Oh. Really? That's... interesting. Or... it could be, maybe it's not, I don't know,” he said quickly.

O'Hara would be back soon, and Lassiter didn't want to keep her waiting or to leave this for later, when it might stagnate instead of grow, because of all of the things he could see, and hear, and smell, there was also a huge thing that he could feel. Potential. He walked closer slowly, stopping when he was directly in front of him, and waited until Shawn looked up—his face was solemn now and he was trembling very slightly, but Lassiter knew that it had nothing to do with a physical weakness. 

“Shawn,” he said, very quietly. “Things are changing for me in ways I still can't completely comprehend. My entire life needs reevaluating. Please be one hundred per cent clear with me right now.”

“Okay,” Shawn breathed, and then he went for what he'd wanted for almost a year. He put both of his hands on Lassie's face, pulled him down a little, and kissed him. He felt slightly dizzy again and closed his eyes when Lassiter pressed against him, kissing him back, and he moaned very softly when he realized that he was lightheaded again, this time too much to attribute to the amazing feeling of having Lassie's arms around him again. Lassiter broke the kiss and moved them both to the table, helping Shawn into a chair, where he slumped for a few seconds before sticking out his lower lip. “That was a crappy first kiss, wasn't it?” he said, when he could. “Can I call a do-over?”

“It wasn't crappy,” Lassiter said. He almost asked if that was because of what had happened, but then he found that he didn't need to—Shawn's relief and happiness was too much for it to have just been building for a few hours. Shawn closed his eyes and breathed slowly, and as Lassiter watched him, he searched his memory and decided that the decision he'd made months ago, to treat all of Spencer's antics—especially those that could be construed as flirting with him—as simply foolish jackassery, had been a bad one. This was a better one. He laid his hand on his forearm and squeezed, but very gently. “Shawn.”

“Yeah?”

“You need to go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow, if you want.”

“I want,” he said at once, and opened his eyes. “You're going to go help Jules with her naughty gunshot paper?”

He nodded. “I'm going to need to sleep too.”

“The night life chooses you,” Shawn said, and then he grinned slowly. “Hey, uh... you know, there aren't any windows in my bedroom. It's really dark in there during the day... if you want to come crash here when you're done at the PD...”

Lassiter thought about it and realized three things almost at once: Shawn wanted him to, he wanted to, and he could. “All right,” he said, and smiled. “I suppose we're going to be exploring more than one new thing together.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just after the timeline of Supernatural episode 5x03 "Free To Be You And Me" (Dean and Cas capture Raphael in the summer of 2009).

**TWO YEARS LATER**

“I see a dark space,” Shawn said loudly, throwing his arms out and missing Gus by inches.

“Yeah, it's dark everywhere, thanks,” Lassiter said, his arms folded. “You want to stop wasting everyone's time?”

Shawn turned around so that Chief Vick and the line of uniforms on either side of the detectives couldn't see his face. “How many and where are they?” he whispered, waving his arms in the air back and forth a little for effect.

“Chief, we've been over this area once already,” Lassiter told her. “There's nothing here, and he could be three hours away by now.”

Shawn spun around fast, one arm pointed to the left. “I see a hostage!” he said. “And a number—eighteen! He's got someone with him and they're in one of the storage sheds!”

“Detective Lassiter, take three officers and go that way,” Vick ordered, pointing. “Detective O'Hara, with me and the rest and around the back. Mr. Spencer, you and Mr. Guster _stay put_.”

Shawn stepped back obediently as the cops scattered. “Thanks, Lassie,” he said softly, and grinned when Lassiter glanced back at him before rounding the corner of a line of sheds, his gun out and pointed at the ground.

“If that scumbag's hostage is a woman, slam his ass into the roof of the car,” Gus added, also in a whisper. Shawn listened carefully, and then he nodded at Gus and bumped fists with him when he heard the familiar sounds of arrest.

Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter came back around to the squad cars, dragging the man Shawn had glimpsed two days ago, running away from a home invasion, between them. Juliet opened the door, and Shawn saw the edge of Lassie's foot trip up their suspect, causing him to knock his forehead against the door frame.

“Whoops,” Lassiter said mildly. 

“Oh no,” Juliet said. “See what happens when you forget your glasses?”

“And when you kidnap sweet, innocent, single ladies!” Gus muttered, folding his arms and glaring. He looked at Shawn hopefully. “Maybe?”

Shawn glanced at Lassie, and then he shook his head at Gus when Lassiter rubbed at the third finger of his left hand. “Sorry, she's married.”

“She wasn't wearing a ring,” Gus said, disappointed. “I looked.”

Shawn shrugged. “Maybe that ass-basket who took her hostage stole it. You want to go ask her?”

“No.” Gus sighed, and then dropped his voice even lower. “Your stupid vampire boyfriend can probably smell him on her.”

“My vampire boyfriend, with his awesome vampire senses, can also still hear you,” Shawn pointed out. Then he snickered when Lassie looked deliberately in their direction and Gus put on his Who, Me? face.

“Excellent job, Mr. Spencer,” Chief Vick said as she walked over, tilting her head a little at him. “As usual, that was very impressive. Come see me tomorrow for your check.”

“Chief totally suspects something, doesn't she?” Shawn asked Lassie later, as they headed for home.

“She's suspected you from the start of being a fake,” Lassiter said. “A year ago she started to seriously reevaluate that assumption. She'd believe in you completely by now, since the evidence all stacks up that way, if she wasn't a true skeptic. In the end, it doesn't matter, because we're getting results.”

“Damn good results,” Shawn said, pleased. “You and me are practically unstoppable.” He sat back in his seat and grinned with his eyes closed. “You are the night, and I am the sight. Wet yourself, Santa Barbara.”

“But you're not the sight,” Lassiter protested. 

“Oh, fine, ruin my super-sweet crime-fighting-duo rhyme with your technicalities,” Shawn scoffed. “How about, I am the light? As in, the light of your life? Right? And you are the... bite?” He grinned when Lassie's eyes slid over to him and he licked his lips. “Totally,” Shawn said, his voice slightly breathy as Lassiter put the car into park and turned it off. “I've got all sorts of bodily fluids you can suck.”

It took almost everything he had to not climb into his lap right there in the car, but they had an amazingly big, comfy bed that Shawn loved to be fucked into, so he scrabbled for his car door and stood impatiently on the sidewalk for a second before realizing Lassiter was frowning at the house. Shawn turned and looked closer, glanced up the street, and then rolled his eyes when he remembered Juliet mentioning she had a 'big date' that night.

“There's someone in there,” Lassie said, behind Shawn now. “One heartbeat.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Dean Winchester.”

Lassiter looked at him sharply. “I'm not picking up his scent,” he said. He'd been on watch for it since the last time that asshole and his brother had been in town—almost a year ago the Winchesters had taken it upon themselves to 'check up' on Lassiter, which had irritated him and Shawn but had been welcome input for both Gus and Juliet (for very different reasons)—but there had been no indication of them returning at all, as far as he knew. Still, he didn't doubt that Shawn knew what he was talking about; it was just annoying that he'd known first. Who, as Shawn had put it, was the _night_ around here?

“Are you picking up anyone's?”

He looked around more carefully as he breathed in, and after a moment he shook his head. “No. He's masking himself. What was it Gus found? Saffron and trillium?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.” Shawn hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets and cocked his head, considering. “Should we sneak up on him?”

“No, he'll have heard the car and I'm sure he's watching,” Lassiter said, annoyed. He went to the front door and turned the knob, knowing it would have been unlocked since he and Shawn had left that morning.

Dean was lounging in Shawn's favorite chair, his boots propped comfortably on the coffee table. “Well, hey,” he greeted. “If it isn't Twilight and Fright Night.”

“Get your feet off my table, Winchester,” Lassiter ordered, putting his briefcase down in his own armchair.

“Am I supposed to be Twilight?” Shawn asked indignantly. “I'll have you know that golden time is my best lighting.”

Dean snorted, sitting up and returning his feet to the floor. “I'll bet,” he said. “So... how's tricks? Everything cool here?”

Lassiter folded his arms and smiled thinly. “Sure,” he said. “How's your new boyfriend?”

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think I have one?”

“Easy,” Shawn said. “You're all clean and spiffy, which means you just got out of the shower, and I somehow doubt you got dolled up just for the likes of us, especially since you shaved, too. But you're not wearing aftershave or cologne, so you're probably not trying to make some girl forget you normally smell like ballsweat and desperation. Your clothes are clean, but you need new jeans, dude.” Shawn grinned and pointed. “The knees of those are wearing thin, much faster than the rest of the denim. Also, you have a hickey, and a small irritation on your neck, like from someone else's face stubble.”

“He still smells like ballsweat and desperation,” Lassiter said, and then he snorted. “Some of which isn't his.”

Dean shook his head. “I hate you guys.”

“I'm cool with that,” Shawn said. “But as you'd know if you checked, we're totally cool here. Lassie was even looking good for assistant chief, with his amazing arrest record, but—”

“I turned it down,” Lassiter said, and he shrugged. “I wouldn't have thought that was in me a few years ago, but I work better when I can get out there and _find_ people.”

“Besides, why ride a desk when you can ride me, right?” Shawn said, and grinned brilliantly. Dean rolled his eyes and Shawn went on. “And as for me, while I may not actually have psychic powers, I've made besties with a few spirits via the talking board that witch we met gave me for my birthday, and they've helped us take down three cursed objects, two poltergeists, one werewolf, and a partridge in a pear tree.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “So you're hunting now? That's new.”

“Not deliberately.” Shawn shrugged. “But if anything wanders in our part of the world, we invite it to get the fuck out.”

“This is our city,” Lassiter said. “We are responsible for keeping people safe, and we do it.”

“Hmm,” Dean said, and considered that. Then he nodded and stood up. “Good deal. Uhh... one more thing. Just so you know... my brother may have accidentally let Lucifer out of his cage. He's walking the Earth and we all might be dead soon. Just in case you want to, you know. Look out for demons, angels, the Apocalypse.”

“Any one of those?” Lassiter asked sarcastically, while Shawn stared blankly at this new information.

“Yep,” Dean said. “Though in my experience, Archangels are the biggest bitches. Just...if you come across anything, you know. Drop a dime, we'll see what we can do.”

“Awesome,” Shawn said after a moment. “Well... I guess we'll be on the edge of our seats for that.” He looked uncertainly at Lassiter, who looked back evenly, and then he glanced at Dean again. “Oh, one more thing. Your left rear tire is a little low. Also, you parked on the wrong side of the street, and it's street-cleaning day.”

Dean looked startled for a moment before snorting. “Yep, that sounds about right.” He headed for the front door, giving both Shawn and Lassiter a small salute on the way by. “See you on the flip side, losers, I gotta split.”

“Date night,” Shawn agreed. “Don't wait up for Sam—Jules has missed him. Have a good cockapocalypse with your own boyfriend.”

Dean snorted as he opened the door. “Whatever.”

“You should call that witch for a séance to find out more about this,” Lassiter said to Shawn as the door closed, and then rolled his eyes to himself. “There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself say.”

“I'll call her later. Right now I'm hungry,” Shawn said, and he headed for the fridge. He opened the door, and then he stared in horror at the empty space. “Losechester!” He came into the living room just as he heard a loud engine gun down the road. “Jerk! He stole my pie!”

“I know,” Lassiter said. “I smelled it on his breath. Looks like you're going to have to snack on me instead.”

“Oh... suck it, Lassie.”

.

It was majorly weird to feel good at the end of the world, but hell, if not then, when? The weather was perfect and his baby purred contentedly as he walked her up the highway, tapping his fingers on the door where his arm rested.

“Hello, Dean.”

He closed his eyes briefly and grinned before turning to look at Cas, who had just materialized in the front seat. “Hey,” he said.

“Where is Sam?”

“Date night,” Dean said, and snorted. 

“And the vampire you wanted to check on?”

“Fine.” He laughed a little and shook his head. “It's all good, Cas. Weirdly, awesomely, fucked-up good. The not-psychic is taking psychic lessons, the vampire is cutting down crime rates as lead dick of the PD, Sam's half in love with the chick who tried to break my face, and the angel on my shoulder spends just as much time in my bed.”

Castiel smiled. “Now that Raphael is actively hunting me, being close to you is the only time that I feel blessed. Are we going to your bed?”

“Definitely,” Dean said, and he reached over to lay his hand on the inside of Cas's thigh. “But first we're gonna ride, we're gonna fly while we can.”

Cas considered that. “I can fly,” he said, and then offered, “I could take you up with me, if you wanted.”

“You already do,” Dean said. When Castiel smiled at him again, pleased, Dean hit the accelerator and they flew.

  
  
  


Shawn skidded to a stop, relieved to finally find Gus in the Psych office, standing in the back room and facing the back door. His friend hadn't answered his phone for the last two days, and although Lassie had insisted that Gus was probably taking some time off or—for some reason—doing that 'real work' thing, Shawn hadn't bought it. Gus _always_ answered his phone, and when he felt the primal urge to tuck in his shirt and respectfully pimp himself out in doctor's offices, he never refused to half-heartedly shove Shawn's face in it (which was, more often than not, clearly a subcutaneous cry for help, for rescue from the dullery of pharmaceutical sales). Shawn had attempted to file a Missing Persons report on him, but Juliet had gently—but firmly—turned him back around toward the entrance to the department, reminding him that one couldn't file such a report after half an afternoon of getting no responses to his texting.

Which was ridiculous—Shawn had challenged Gus on the reality of jackalopes. For Gus not to respond to _that_ meant something was wrong.

And there was the fact that Shawn had put a GPS tracker into the inside lining of Gus's sample case (for his protection, of course—there were _monsters_ out there, ones much less hot than Lassie when he had fangs) and the tracker had gone dark sometime yesterday morning.

"Buddy," Shawn greeted, almost dropping the smoothie he was holding in his surprise. " _There_ you are! Where have you been—I've been trying to find you! Did you try to prove me wrong and stumble upon a nest of jackalopes?" He paused. "Oh my god, can jackalopes fly? Did they make you one of their own? You got into the _clan_ and you didn't call me?"

"Shawn... Spencer."

"That's my name, don't wear it out," Shawn said automatically. In deference to his advanced age and higher station in life these days, he just managed to leave out the second line, oft-chanted in their schoolyard days: _Touch my butt and poop comes out._ When Gus still didn't turn around, Shawn frowned a little. "Gus, are you okay? Do I need to say your name like a robot too? Burton. Guh—ahh!"

When Shawn's best friend in the world whirled around to face him, Shawn's quick eyes saw everything at once: the blood around his nostrils, the lips stretched into an insane grin that was far too wide, the black, black eyes. Gus—or the thing inside him—started to walk forward. Shawn's smoothie hit the ground.


End file.
